


Nights Spent With a Somniphobe

by sneezied



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Neville Longbottom/Theodore Nott, POV Draco, POV Harry, Post War, Rating: Teen and Up, Slow Burn, Theodore Nott Is a Main Character, eighth year au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneezied/pseuds/sneezied
Summary: Harry Potter had to deal with three problems during his Christmas Break:No. 1: His house was losing it's magic.No. 2: His newfound feelings for a classmate were spiralling out of control.No. 3: Draco Malfoy was the solution to the two aforementioned problems.This wasn't the happy ending he'd envisioned for himself, that was for sure.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 100
Collections: sneezied's Drarry Favourites





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: In case you are a reader who has been with me since the beginning of this fic (hi! I love you!!), you may notice that there is half of the chapters than originally published. This is no accident! I ended up combining chapters to make them a bit longer and to overall have a more cohesive reading experience. Nothing has changed plot-wise-- chapters one/two are now one chapter, three/four are now one chapter, so on and so forth. Thanks for bearing with me while I work out the oddities of writing :)
> 
> And if you're new (hi!! glad you're here!!!), please note that chapters are split into two POVs; half of the chapter will be in Harry's POV (daytime) and half will be in Draco's POV (nighttime). That's all for now. Enjoy the fic!

Seeing the train felt like coming home to Harry.

He'd missed this— the feeling of magic in the air, youngins singing the school song to the wrong tune, the smell of cauldron polish wafting through the air– everything about going back to Hogwarts. The air was filled with steam from the train, and the chaos that ensued around him made Harry feel only a tiny bit claustrophobic.

"Alright, dears, stay close!"

"Molly, they aren't children anymore–"

"Except for Ginny!"

"Shut up, Ron."

The endless bickering from the siblings and smothering from Molly hadn't been necessarily bothersome all summer, but it had been something Harry has had to deal with. (For slightly longer than he would have liked.) But Molly's motherly gaze and Ron and Ginny's snarky remarks were of the same value as classical music to Harry. Some people listened to Bach and Mozart while they went about their day; Harry listened to the youngest of the Weasleys' squabbling while under their mother's close eye. It was familiar, comforting. Not just in the way that it filled the air with noise, but in the way it reminded Harry that he wasn't alone. He's going to miss the busy and chaotic life that he had when he lived at the Burrow.

Suddenly, the trolley beneath Harry's grip hit a crack in the cement of Platform 9 3/4, causing it to jostle rather unpleasantly. Harry stumbled, and the cart ran over someone's heels. He heard a small yelp and the scuffing of shoes on the pavement.

"Oh, sorry!" Harry began to say. "I wasn't looking where I was–"

The person before Harry was lacking in colour, face and hair a creamy white and traveling cloak a stark black against the dozen greys of the platform and station. His eyes were skittish, dancing about, and steely grey. They were less guarded than Harry remembered. But what truly shocked him was the person's hair: still blond and shiny, looking as soft and perfect as it always did– but it was a different kind of perfect. What once was slicked back and simply lacking in imperfections was now a messy undercut, but messy in the most purposeful way.

"It's alright." Draco Malfoy's voice was calm and steady, but his eyes gave him away. He seemed anxious, like his brain was in the midst of a fight-or-flight dilemma. He looked the way Harry felt all the time now.

The girl behind Malfoy cleared her throat. She was tall, thin, and utterly gorgeous. She grabbed his sleeve gingerly and smiled up at him, tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ear. "Draco, darling, we won't get a good spot on the train if we don't hurry." Only after Harry heard her voice did he recognise Astoria Greengrass.

Draco nodded ever so slightly. "Yes, coming. Good day to you, Potter."

And then he was gone and Ron was suddenly standing in front of Harry, looking at him like he'd turned into a numpty. "Mate, what are you doing?"

"I–I was talking to—" The train's whistle interrupted him, and Harry hadn't even gotten his trunk on board.

"Bloody Hell, c'mon. We're gonna end up crashing another car into the Whomping Willow if we don't hurry," he joked.

Harry tried to smile at Ron, but it came out more as a grimace than anything else. His mind was still stuck on how the air seemed to still between him and Malfoy, the way his robes whipped in the draft of the train station, the weight of the magic that surrounded him. He couldn't decide whether it was horrid or intoxicating.

...

The feast in the Great Hall went as it normally did, but instead of the man with a long grey beard and high-heeled boots beneath his dress robes speaking to the school, Minerva McGonagall gave the opening speech. It was strange, without Dumbledore, but it didn't hurt like Harry thought it would. Over the past year, Harry had learned things about Dumbledore that he almost wished he hadn't. Because now, after what felt like decades of stewing and brooding over the memories, everything in Harry's mind that had to do with the old man was locked up in an angry, red box in the in back of his mind that he refuses to touch with a ten foot pole.

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione jolted him back to reality. She was curled up on the common room floor now, poufs and pillows surrounding her in a pleasant arrangement of rich purple tones. That was the colour scheme for the eighth year dorms, where Harry and his class were staying for the year. They were given the opportunity to retake their seventh year of schooling since they were unable to sit their NEWTs. The students were all in their original houses, but since they were also technically in a school year that had never existed, the wizarding community resurrected up a new wing buried deep in the dungeons near the Slytherin dorms during the Hogwarts Restoration that took place over the summer. The eighth year commons had a completely different atmosphere when compared to Harry's beloved Gryffindor tower, but the more time he spent in it, the more it seemed to grow on him.

"Sorry, just thinking. What're you reading?"

She adjusted her position, setting her book down and snatching the blanket off the arm of the couch Harry was sitting on. "Some Austen. I've been feeling a bit homesick."

"You and your old-timey literature..."

Hermione smirked, and said in her quoting-voice, "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, yeah." He then paused, growing slightly more serious. "Why are you already homesick? It's only the first day, 'Mione."

She sighed and snuggled deeper into the blanket. "I know. But with this whole eighth year dorms arrangement, I just feel a little... out of place, I suppose."

Harry nodded. "I get that." Although their roommate assignments were the same as they were in Gryffindor, the rooms themselves were completely different. The walls were covered in a deep purple wallpaper with some kind of shiny, Victorian-esque pattern. The beds were stiff and felt like they were new— Harry missed the old, magically preserved mattresses that were stuffed with goose feathers and smelled of frankincense in the Gryffindor tower. Lying on the new bed felt like lying on a stranger's. "We'll get used to it, though," he said eventually.

"Indeed. And hopefully we won't be as distracted with all that 'saving the world' stuff this year."

It was at this moment that Ron walked through the door to the common room (it wasn't the Fat Lady and her passwords, but rather a mirror that you had to bow to before it would allow you to walk through it). He was carrying two paper grocery sacks, Dean and Seamus in tow with similar packages.

"Guess what?" he said as soon as he approached them.

Hermione put her book down. "What."

Dean leaned on Seamus' shoulder. "Parkinson decided to throw a little eighth year get-together tonight after curfew. Gonna be some drinks, apparently."

Hermione tsked. "You all know that we do have classes tomorrow morning, right?"

Ron tsked back at his girlfriend. "You know that we don't start classes until eleven tomorrow, right?" He earned himself a displeased look from Hermione. He gave her a small, teasing smile. "That's plenty of time to drink some hangover cure and get on with it."

It was true; since eighth years only had to take their NEWT classes, their schedules were more or less cut in half. They started classes at eleven o'clock, ate lunch at noon, and then studied until four (or five, if they had a double lesson or demonstration that day). But that didn't mean that the eighth year students were let off the hook; the house elves did not have to provide their service to the upperclassmen, with the exception of cooking and such. So the students were left to their own devices when it came to cleaning and laundry. McGonagall had suggested a chore chart of sorts, which most of the Gryffindors and Slytherins resented and most of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws adored.

"Anyways," Seamus disregarding Ron and Hermione, "She sent us to get some decorations." He reached into his bag and pulled out a roll of...

"Crêpe paper?" Harry asked, eyebrow raised.

Ron smirked, seemingly cocky all of the sudden. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Nothing, nothing," Harry grabbed his mug of tea from the coffee table in front of him and took a sip. "It's just that plain old streamers don't quite seem Parkinson's style."

Seamus shrugged with a sly grin, putting the roll back in the bag. "Just following orders, Potter. I'm sure Parkinson has something up her sleeve. Foxes like her always do."

Hermione made a sour face. "She's not really like that... a fox, you know. That's all just gossip, right?"

Harry chuckled dryly. She shot him a dirty look and hit him with a cushion.

"Who's to say. Anyway, we should get going, or the "fox" is going to go feral." Ron nodded to Dean and Seamus, and they began to follow in his stride. "See you there tonight," he said with a bright smile. He patted Harry's shoulder over the back of the couch as he headed towards the girls' dorms, most likely to give Pansy her decorations.

"Are you going?" Harry asked Hermione once they were out of earshot.

She scoffed and reopened her book. "Hera, no. You couldn't pay me to go in a dark, smelly room with a bunch of drunk and horny teenagers. That's just a recipe for disaster."

. . .

The "little get-together" Pansy claimed to have been throwing was actually more like one of those raging house parties you see in coming-of-age American films, and Harry was positive that no one had bothered to ask McGonagall for her permission to have this small event. Someone had charmed the candles to flicker rainbow, and the streamers Ron, Dean, and Seamus had brought earlier were charmed to dance around the chandelier in the center of the ceiling, all of them glowing a bright lavender. A Muggle radio had been smuggled (probably by Ron, Dean, and Seamus, too) from Professor Cloven's office— the same radio that's used in demonstrations for Muggle Studies. Britney Spears was blaring in the common room, and Hermione was right: it smelled of sweat and alcohol, and nearly every student was bumping and grinding to the music.

"Hey, Chosen One," Pansy drawled, cleaning out a glass at the makeshift bar he was sitting at. Two dressers from one of the girls' dorms must have been Locomotor-ed into the common room and filled with most-definitely illegally conjured alcohol. Though Harry was too buzzed to care, if he was being honest.

He then realised he hadn't listened to the second half of what Pansy said. "Sorry?" He half-said-half-shouted over the loud music.

"I asked you if you needed another firewhiskey?"

Harry debated. His consumption of alcohol up to this point had been somewhat temperate; did he really want to get smashed tonight? He didn't have classes in the morning, so it's not like he had anything to worry about... and it might actually help him get a decent night's sleep for once.

"Act'lly, I'll take a shotta Gigglewater."

She smirked. "Comin' right up."

Pansy was light on her feet, dancing around the two other Slytherins tending the bar (Harry didn't recognise either of them). She was pretty— puberty had been quite kind to her— and she'd grown into her tall and lanky frame with a grace unbeknownst to Harry. Her makeup was done dark, making her cheekbones stick out like blades and her eyes pop. Harry wondered when this happened, the whole Pansy Not Looking Like A Bulldog thing. The other Slytherins seemed different too. Not just physically, but... socially. Since boarding the train, those who had meaner streaks in the past kept to themselves.

"Here's that Gigglewater for you," she wiped her hands on a towel that was half stuffed in the pocket of her skirt. "Let me know if you want another."

Harry smiled are her. "Will do." Then he downed the shot and, forgetting to bite his tongue afterword, burst out laughing. Pansy snorted, holding a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Harry had never seen her do either, genuinely at least.

"You have a nice laugh," he said, brain too fuzzy and music too loud to really process it.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the smile remained upon her lips. She let the words sit between them a bit before replying sarcastically, "You, Potter, are quite the charmer when you're drunk."

He shook his head. "Nah, not really. I'm just drunk," he leaned his elbows on the table, resting his head on his hands. "No charm. "

She rolled her eyes, shook her head. "Sweet Aristophanes..." She began to turn away, probably to serve one of dozen other drunks in the room

"Wait," he reached out towards her, not close enough to touch her, but far enough that it caught her eye. " 'Nother shot?"

She rolled her eyes (again... Harry began to think that she may do that a lot) as she grabbed the bottle and another shot glass. "Are you trying to get blackout drunk?"

He smiled wide, squinched up his eyes and nose and everything. The whole nine yards; the kind of smile he doesn't normally show. "Yup!"

She cackled then. A full-on loud, brassy cackle. But it was so fitting, so charming, and Harry felt like she was showing him a part of herself that she didn't normally show, too. Her cheeks were flushed, not as much as Harry's were bound to be, but enough that he could tell she was at least buzzed. Which meant she probably wasn't showing him the softer-side of herself on purpose. Regardless, she grabbed a second shot glass and filled it up after Harry's, raising it to a toast. "To getting fucking wasted."

"To getting wasted!" Harry toasted and downed the shot. This time, his laugh was bigger, harder to contain. Pansy's cackle and his belly laugh fillined the air around them, drawing attention to their corner of the room. The onlookers smiled at them, some expressions filled with confusion, others too drunk to question why the Gryffindor "godsend" was laughing with Pansy Parkinson.

"'Mione was right 'bout you," he said when their outburst had finally died down.

She seemed to blush slightly at this, but with the dim light, Harry couldn't tell for certain. "What do you mean?"

"You're good company, Pansy."

She smiled at him, softer than before. "Thank you, Potter. But you are also drunk, and I'm on my way there, so I don't think it's quite fair to make judgments at this point."

He shrugged. "Too late." She shook her head with a smile, and Harry grinned back. "I'm gonna go dance. Wanna come?"

She held up the bottle of Gigglewater. "I'm afraid I'm stuck with tending to the bar."

"'Kay, well, I'll be on the dance floor." He waggled his eyebrows, swaying as he stood. "See ya, Parkinson."

He could hear her chuckle as he walked away and into the sea of drunk teenagers. Britney Spears changed to Janet Jackson, and Harry may or may not have lost his shit. He found Ron in the crowd, along with Dean and Seamus, and they all may or may not have danced completely inappropriately. "Woo"s and "Daaaaamn"s were shouted out by surrounding students when Seamus suddenly turned to Dean and smashed their lips together, quite messily if Harry was being honest. He felt himself smile while Ron hollered, "Get it, Seamus!" over the smooth vocals of "You Want This."

As the songs turned from popular dance anthems to more mellow tunes, Harry returned to the makeshift bar for more drinks. A boy with a head of mousy, brown hair served him instead of Pansy, who was busy with a group of Ravenclaw girls. He looked familiar to Harry, but he couldn't quite place where he knew him from. The boy was drying a glass with a towel, looking like he was working in an old-timey saloon rather than a crowded room full of stupid teens. He didn't greet Harry, didn't acknowledge him expect for giving him a glass of firewhiskey and a flat look. 

"Hey, what's your--" When they locked eyes, Harry could finally place where he knew this guy from. "Oh, you're Nev's friend, right; the one from the Gardening Club? Terrance?"

"Theodore. Nott." He said, avoiding eye contact with Harry.

"Damn, so close!" Harry sipped at his drink. "So, Nott..."

Harry trailed off. What was he even going to say? What is there to say? Theodore said nothing, still drying that same glass which had to have been dry by now. Harry watched with minimal interest, mind going blank. He couldn't quite focus on anything particular; his vision was too fuzzy, mind too foggy. But he felt warm, from the inside out, for the first time in a long time, so he kept sipping his glass until there was nothing but ice cubes in it.

"Another?" Nott asked when Harry set the glass on the bar.

"Why not?"

And so they continued their not-quite comfortable silence well into the evening until Ron stumbled up to the bar, an irked-looking Hermione in tow. She apparently had been either getting ready for bed or was in bed by the time Ron had got to her because she was wearing her Gryffindor dressing gown (every student got one in their house colours each year... it was quite much in Harry's opinion) and her bedroom slippers. 

Harry threw his arms up in the air, sloshing some of his drink onto the stone floor. "'Mione! Ron! 'S wonderful to see yuh!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Ronald, he's had more to drink than you."

Ron, who was buzzed, but not nearly as drunk as Harry, grabbed the glass out of Harry's hand and downed the rest in a quick gulp. "Not true; he just can't hold his liquor."

"Shuuuush," Harry grumpily quieted Ron as he tried to drink out of the glass. When no drink came forth, he frowned and look to Theodore Nott, who was obviously listening in on the conversation. "Another round, Nott!"

Hermione instantly cut in. "Absolutely not, Theodore. Isn't there a cut off for those so obviously intoxicated?"

He looked Hermione in the eye and shrugged, just as aloof as he had been towards Harry for the last twenty minutes. He didn't serve Harry another drink, but Hermione still tutted and turned to Ron, arms folded across her chest. "Why did you bring me out here?

Ron laughed heartily, loud enough for anyone to hear over the music blaring through the charmed speakers. He wrapped an arm around her, speaking into the crook of her neck with a grin on his face. He looked like he was about to kiss her, like he wanted to do more than just kiss her. "You need to let loose, Hermione. Have some fun, live a little, et cetera, et cetera."

She shrugged him off of her. "Ronald. I am going to—"

"Hey there, Granger. Would you like something to drink?" Pansy Parkinson purred at her. She leaned forward onto the opposite side of the bar, an arm draped around Nott's waist as she did so.

Hermione pulled an affronted look, and for a moment, Harry swore she was about to whip out her wand and do something she'd most certainly regret. Instead, she just narrowed her eyes at Parkinson and curled her lip as she said, "No. Thank you."

Pansy shrugged, tugged on Nott's tie. "Loosen up, Theo. It is a party after all." And she walked away. Harry thought the exchange was quite odd, but who was he to judge?

Ron's slightly widened eyes turned from Pansy back to Hermione. "Yeesh. She sure is something."

Hermione huffed, but said nothing, eyes still trained on the Slytherin girl who was now fixing a drink for someone on the other end of the bar. Suddenly, as Harry was trying to figure out who it was for, his vision began to swim and the scene around him was masked by green, red, and blue spots. As though the world had been tilted on its axis, Harry leaned far to the right and nearly fell of off his stool. Ron caught him by the elbow and kept him upright. "Oh. Hey, Ron." Harry said, as though he had just noticed his presence.

"For the love of— Ron, get him to bed before he hurts himself." She was about to turn away when she hesitated. "Harry, just, please try to actually get some sleep tonight. I'll bring you some Hangover Cure in the morning."

"What about me?" Ron called to her as he half-guided, half-carried Harry away from the bar. Hermione turned on her heel to face him, hair bouncing along with her. The look of pure exasperation on her face made Harry giggle.

"You, dear Ronald, get nothing."

And with that, she pushed her way into the sea of teenagers and disappeared. Harry laughed at Ron's incredulous look and put all of his weight against him. The ginger groaned, leaning into Harry to counterbalance the force of Harry's body on his. "Your girlfriend is scary, Ronny," Harry mumbled.

Ron began dragging them forward towards the dormitories. "I'm aware. An' don't call me that."

Harry must have drank more than he thought, because he'd reached the giggly stage of drunkenness; the point where everyone and everything is utterly hilarious. He tittered at Ron, looking at him fondly. "'Kay, Ronny."

The people around the boys were dancing, pushing into them. It was nice, the contact with other people, though unintentional. Harry didn't touch other people— or get touched by other people— often, besides Hermione, and Ginny when they were a couple. Touching Ron was nice too, almost in the same way. But it felt nicer for some reason, more secure. Ron was strong, not like, body-builder level, but as fit as Harry was. And he smelled so damn good. Like pine, peppermint, and something distinctly... masculine. Harry leaned close to Ron's neck and breathed in deeply.

"Oi, what're yuh doing?"

"You smell," he breathed in again, relishing the scent, "Rully good, Ronny."

Ron scoffed. "Sweet Lady George, you're drunk."

The boys kept making their way through the crowd, until someone bumped into Ron and decided to strike up a conversation. Harry's vision was swimming, the scene in front of him constantly dipping and swaying at this point, and his legs felt like they were about to walk off without him. The hall to the boys' dormitory was in sight, so he tugged on Ron's sleeve like a little kid at Tesco's, silently pleading with his mum to stop talking to Cathy from the PTA because it'd been fifteen minutes and he wanted to go home. Ron looked to the door of the dormitory and then, apparently thinking Harry was sober enough to get himself there, said, "Go ahead, I'll just be a minute." 

Harry gladly stumbled through the outskirts of the dance circle to his dorm room. The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting on their bed, reading a book. Harry recognised him, but couldn't figure out who it was. His brain was yelling at him, telling him that he knew exactly who it was, but it felt like Harry was underwater. He couldn't focus on anything except his bed, which once was perceived by Harry as uncomfortable and stiff, but now looked as comfortable as a cloud to him. He collapsed onto the duvet, giggling when his glasses rode up his face and rested on his eyebrows. He readjusted them and attempted to unknot his tie with one had, the other one not wanting to cooperate for some reason.

After a minute of struggling to get it anything but loosened, Harry sighed and left it on. In favour of doing absolutely anything, he rested his arms on his stomach and laid staring at the canopy above him. It looked quite soft, and the draping of the fabric reminded him of the banners he saw in the Ravenclaw common room during the restoration of Hogwarts over the summer. Remembering the five weeks he spent rebuilding the school with his friends caused a certain warmth to arise in him, one he hadn't felt in a long time. Him and Ginny and Ron and Hermione had spent hours, days on end together rebuilding their world brick by brick, mending the fallen walls and shattered windows of the castle with more magic than any of them have ever put into a project before. It was beautiful, in a way-- sad, but beautiful. The memories all melted together in Harry's head, and the distant shouts of Madonna lyrics and drunken laughter lulled Harry to sleep. 

When he awoke, drool dripping onto his pillow, tie knot digging into his clavicle, the room was pitch black. Harry was panting hard and his heart was thumping as though he had just run a mile, and he wasn't sure why. Another nightmare, he presumed. Probably the same one he'd been having for a few months now, but could never seem to remember.

He tried to focus on his surroundings to ground himself. Ron was snoring deeply and he could hear the breathing of who he assumed was Dean and Seamus as well. He propped himself up with his elbow, hissing at the pounding at the back of his head. He didn't feel very nauseous though, so he closed his curtains, tugged off his trousers and undid his tie and button up, and attempted to go back to sleep. But as soon as his head hit the pillow, he knew that wasn't going to happen. He allowed himself to lay there for a few minutes, praying for sleep to take him before he sighed and got up, deciding to get some tea from the kitchens. That's what he always did when he couldn't sleep, drank a cup or two of tea. It never got him to go back to sleep, but it did settle his nerves. So he tugged on some pajama bottoms and made his way out of the room. Since he wasn't used to the new layout, he tripped over a trunk and a pile of books next to Seamus' bed (or at least he assumed it was Seamus' bed... he couldn't tell in the dark.) on his way. Muttering a string of curse words under his breath he made it out into the hall. Holding his foot with one hand, he leaned against the cold, stone wall and cast a quick tempus.

It was half past two. He remembered looking at the clock in the common room before going to the dorms to lay down. It had read one o'clock.

God, Harry hated himself.

Feeling bad for asking so much of the Hogwarts house elves this early in the morning, he decided to just call Kreacher and see if he could prepare Harry a cup. It's probably make the elf resent him a little more, but Harry would rather wake up only one elf rather than two dozen. He figured he should probably step away from the dorms to call upon the elf, since he didn't want to wake anyone, and made his way into the common room.

He expected to see passed out teenagers lying on the floor, snoring and drooling just as he'd been minutes earlier, but what he hadn't expected to see was Draco Malfoy: a person who thought himself too prim, too proper, and too damn rich to be cleaning up the half spilled cocktails of stupid eighteen year olds.

But here he was, doing just that, alone at two thirty in the morning.

______________________________

Draco hated parties. Having to sit through dozens of cocktail parties and business dinners in starchy suits every weekend during his childhood left an everlasting hatred for them within Draco. He didn't like people, he didn't like dancing, and he surely didn't like "inter-house cooperation," or whatever the fuck Pansy called it. And now here he was, cleaning up other people's shit at three in the goddamn morning. Draco huffed, spelling away the cups that were on the mantel above the fireplace. Within the hour he'd cleaned up most of the trash (and one vomit-covered plant... Draco was on the fringe of silencio-ing Pansy permanently so that she could never voice these abhorrent ideas), but Draco still hadn't a clue as to how he was going to move the bureaus that Pansy had used as bars back into the girls' dorm rooms without waking anyone. He was thinking about what to do while spelling away a tray of browning fruit when he heard someone approach him from behind. He whipped around, pointing his wand at them. (Which was pointless, and everyone in the damn wizarding community knew it too. As a part of his sentencing from the Ministry of Magic, he was to use a Ministry-issued wand until the end of his studies, when he would have a retrial to evaluate if he was prepared to be a "decent, contributing member of Wizarding society.")

He found his wand pointing at Harry Bloody Potter. Draco sneered, lowering his defences. Potter stood there, shirtless, mouth hanging open like he never learned how to shut it. Sweet Sarah Kane, he wanted to punch his stupid face.

"Er," Potter said, as eloquent as usual. "Malfoy. You're awake."

Draco rolled his eyes, the urge to break Potter's jaw growing by the second. He was the last person Draco wanted to see at three a.m. "Really? I wasn't aware."

Potter stood there, awkward. He broke eye contact with Draco and walked to the other side of the room. Draco wanted to say that he had put all of his childish hatred and envy for the Chosen One aside, but he was tired and his head hurt and he hated the fact that Potter seemed like a completely different, in fact almost tolerable, person and Draco just couldn't help but be short with him. He remembered how he'd looked at the train station earlier that day, scraggly teenage-esque stubble, obnoxious glasses slightly askew on his nose... Hera, just thinking about it caused something to stir in Draco. What exactly, he didn't even want to know.

Draco heard Potter mumble something under his breath, followed by a startling crack. He turned to face the noise only to find a house elf bowing deeply to Potter. Draco recognised Kreacher, although eleven years had passed since the last time he saw him at Auntie Walburga's funeral. He looked like he'd aged twice that, and for some reason he was wearing a golden locket around his neck. When he righted his posture, Kreacher's large eyes landed on Draco.

"M-Master Draco!" He'd shouted, voice just as low and scratchy as Draco remembered it being all those years ago. "It is an honor to see the Master here." 

He scuttled over to Draco, bowing so deep his long, crooked nose touched the floor. Potter looked at the pair with a raised brow. Draco disregarded him entirely. "Hello, Kreacher. What has Potter summoned you for at this ungodly hour?"

Kreacher straightened like a rod, eyes glazing over with intention. "Master Harry has asked Kreacher for a cup of tea. Is no trouble for Kreacher to make him his tea, Master Draco. Kreacher lives to serve his masters," lowering his voice as so Potter wouldn't hear, "Regardless of their blood status."

Potter cleared his throat, "I didn't realise you two'd met."

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "Of course I have, dullard. He was the house elf of my Great Aunts' estate."

"Last time Kreacher saw Master Draco, Mistress had just passed. It was the saddest of days for Kreacher." Tears pricked the outer corners of his eyes just at the mention of Walburga Black.

"Yes, I remember. You wouldn't stop sobbing into Grandfather Cygnus' robes until he made you drink a Draught of Peace." Draco smiled at the memory of a loopy Kreacher eating a whole tray of biscuits at the reception, then declaring himself the "biscuit king" before passing out in Uncle Rodolphus' lap.

Kreacher ducked his head, hiding his face from Draco. It seemed he was holding back a snicker. "Does Master Draco require anything of Kreacher before he goes?"

"Tea for me as well. Bring along the milk. No sugar."

Kreacher nodded. "Very well." And then he was gone, leaving Potter and Draco alone once more.

"He seemed to like you," Potter said after a moment's silence.

Draco hummed in response, continuing his cleaning. Potter fiddled with his wand in his hands. Draco was folding the blankets and putting them over the couch when Potter decided to help. He silently rearranged the poufs and cushions back to their original positions, not-so-subtly watching Draco out of the corner of his eye. Once the common room was back in order, Draco collapsed into the high back armchair in front of the hearth. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Are you alright?" Potter asked, sitting on a pouf to Draco's left.

Draco groaned. His head was pounding, and he was so, so tired. He pulled his flask out of his pocket. "Shut up, Potter."

He visibly bristled at Draco's rudeness, but nonetheless obeyed. Draco sipped until the fatigue began to go away, but the headache persisted. 

"What are you drinking?"

Well, there goes hoping for a peaceful evening, Draco thought. Potter was truly getting on his nerves at this point, and for fuck's sake he didn't want to put up with it.

Before Draco could snap at Potter for his incessant talking, Kreacher returned with a tray of small cakes and tea in his hands, steam billowing from the spout of the pot. "Kreacher apologises to his Masters for the inconvenience," he began preparing Harry's cup, pouring the black liquid in the traditional Black family way: he held the pot high above the cup (the Blacks preferred sharp, more pronounced flavours in their tea) and swirling the cup three times counterclockwise before giving it to the drinker. Potter said his thanks and shoved a madeline in his mouth. Blowing on the drink, he held it in his hands like he was in a Madam Puddifoot's advert. Draco was too busy watching Potter's mannerisms to hear what Kreacher had said, but Potter was nodding in response.

"I suppose I could stay there for Christmas break. I need to start getting acquainted with the wards; Hermione's been on my case about it."

"Master must lay down his own." When Potter stares at him blankly over his cup, Kreacher shoots him a look. "Master Harry does not know this?" 

"No," Potter stated simply, sipping at his drink. "I didn't."

Kreacher poured Draco his cup and handed it to him. "Thank you, Kreacher."

The two continued to discuss Potter's plans to move into the Black family home, practically forgetting Draco's existence. But that's alright.

Draco Malfoy was used to being ignored.

"Well, it's getting late," Potter said, draining his cup. Draco's had been empty for ten minutes. "You should get some sleep, Kreacher. Thanks for the tea."

"Yes, Kreacher must be getting back. Masters should sleep now." With a telltale crack, Kreacher had apparated home, the tea set disappearing along with him.

The silence between the boys was anything but comfortable. Draco fidgeted with his sleeves; what was Potter waiting for? Why was he just sitting there, staring at the floor, looking like a dejected cruppy?

"What's going on in that head of yours, Potter?" He started, looking at Draco with wide eyes. 

"I, er... just wanted to know what you were drinking. Out of the flask, I mean. I could smell it earlier and it sure didn't smell like firewhiskey." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Draco cleared his throat, making eye contact with Potter. _What was he after?_ Draco couldn't read him; he just seemed nervous and tired. He decided to be honest with the git, because what's the point in lying to him? "Wideye potion, diluted in a bit of cider."

Potter's face twisted into one of confusion. "You're drinking Wideye potion at three a.m? What's the point in that?"

Draco stood, folding his arms. Maybe there was a point in lying to him. "What's it to you, Chosen One? Shouldn't you be heading to bed anyway now that Mummy Kreacher has made you a midnight snack?"

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy." He stood, brushing cake and biscuit crumbs from his lap."I'll leave you alone since that's what you oh so desire."

"Fine," Draco said briskly, turning his nose up in the air.

"Fine!" Potter threw his arms up in the air as he made his way towards the dorms.

Draco called after him, word sharp as a blade on his lips, "Goodnight!"

"Goodnight!" Potter whisper-shouted as he opened the door to his room.

Draco huffed and brought his legs up into the chair, slinging them over the purple-velvet arm. He used to know exactly what it was that bothered him about Harry Potter: his fame, his stardom, his stupid handsome face, his obnoxious remarks and lack of eloquence. But now, he had no idea what it was about him that made Draco want to rip his hair out. He seemed so different, but still so... Potter. He was still obnoxious, still famous (maybe even more so), still stupidly handsome (definitely more so). But he seemed to have grown up since the war, as they all had, really, and he seemed to have a certain interest in Draco. Or perhaps Potter was just doltish and didn't give a shit about what interacting with Draco meant.

Either way, Draco was annoyed. 

He decided to get some studying done. If he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well use the extra time to be productive. He accioed his NEWT level Ancient Runes textbook from his bag in the corner and began to read. Making something of himself was going to be a hell of a lot of work, especially with the angry mark that stained his arm and the blood that stained is hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I just wanted to say that this chapter was about 1k-2k words longer than most of the other chapters will be! The point of that being I needed to fit as much in as I could in this chapter before the actual story was introduced. This was sort of like a prologue, but the next chapter will pick up right where this one left off. Anyway, thanks for reading my work. I'll try to keep a consistent posting schedule (weekly or every other week), but since second semester of school is starting tomorrow, it may be difficult for me at first with my schedule change! Please check this end note for more updates as I'm writing. Thanks :)


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: In case you are a reader who has been with me since the beginning of this fic (hi! I love you!!), you may notice that there is half of the chapters than originally published. This is no accident! I ended up combining chapters to make them a bit longer and to overall have a more cohesive reading experience. Nothing has changed plot-wise-- chapters one/two are now one chapter, three/four are now one chapter, so on and so forth. Thanks for bearing with me while I work out the oddities of writing :)
> 
> And if you're new (hi!! glad you're here!!!), please note that chapters are split into two POVs; half of the chapter will be in Harry's POV (daytime) and half will be in Draco's POV (nighttime). That's all for now. Enjoy the fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, before we get into this chapter, let's talk about trigger warnings in this fic. I am not going to be labeling every single little triggering moment in the fic because that would just be too much. I'm going to be blunt with y'all:
> 
> This is a post-war story. There is going to be emotional trauma and moments of heavy depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Harry, Draco, and everyone in the story have gone through so much, and they are going to be in the midst of processing their trauma and losses in this story; that's just how the character development in this fic is.
> 
> I will label scenes that are extremely triggering (if there will be any at all), but not stuff that I think is equal to what was written in the actual books-- just be cautious and aware that this fic may contain things you don't want to read. That is all.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like that kind of emotional, angsty kind of development, because I know I sure do!  
> Enjoy the chapter :) - Will
> 
> P.S. I snuck in a reference to a Van Gogh quote... can you find it lol

Harry woke up late the next morning, hangover hitting him like a freight train. His head was pounding and he nearly vomited upon sitting up. But when he finally managed to stay in an upright for more than three seconds, he caught a glimpse of a vial of clear liquid sitting on his nightstand, labeled with a kraft paper tag reading "Pick Me Up Potion (H. Granger)". Harry downed the potion like a shot, desperate for the frog in his throat to be relieved and his headache to be cured. The potion took only a few seconds before Harry could feel it start to kick in. First, the stomach ache was gone, then the headache, and finally the potion got rid of his horrid morning breath, leaving his mouth minty fresh. Harry sighed; although the effects of last night's drinking were gone, Harry still had no want to go to classes, or even breakfast for that matter. He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes cast on the ground until a pair of olive stockinged feet appeared before him. Harry looked up to find a one Neville Longbottom, smiling, cheery as ever, even at seven o'clock in the morning.

"G'morning, Harry. How are you feeling?"

Harry stretched and twisted his neck. "Never better. What's gotten into you, Neville?"

He blushed, rubbed his elbow with one hand. "Well, you see Harry, I was wondering if after classes you could teach me more about the spell you showed me last night. I know you have Quidditch tryouts to oversee tonight, and probably homework to do, and people to catch up with, but I have lots of questions about its mechanics and how you and Hermione came up with it. It sounds a lot like this spell my Grandmother tried to teach me when I was..."  
  


Harry nodded as Neville rambled on, not particularly in the mood to talk. The boys got dressed and prepared themselves for the day as he talked about some photo preservation spell that Augusta Longbottom had invented. Eventually, while they were tying their ties, Neville seemed to get the message that Harry wasn't up for a conversation and gave him a warm smile, anyway. "Sorry, I've been rambling haven't I? Anyways, we'll talk more about your spell later, then. Have a good breakfast, Harry."

And with that, he was on his way to the Great Hall, jogging to catch up with Dean who looked like he hadn't drunk his Pick Me Up yet. Harry finished tying his tie and spelling his hair tidy, too tired to dig through his trunk to find his hairbrush. Shoving on his sneakers, he began the walk through the commons, nodding in greeting to Parvati and Lavender, whose scarred face and eye patch were still hard for Harry to look at. He remembered seeing the aftermath of her encounter with Fenrir Greyback in the chaos of the Great Hall after the battle was fought; the healers who were there told him that they thought she wasn't going to make it through the night, but Madame Pomfrey wasn't having it. McGonagall later told Harry of how she used so much of her magic on Lavender that it had magically bonded them-- something Harry didn't even know was possible. He doesn't know the details of the situation, but he does know that the young lady spends a lot of time in the hospital wing and has ambitions of becoming a healer.

Lavender smiled back at Harry now, the shiny pink claw marks on her face stretching and contorting. Harry felt a wave of uneasiness run through him as he made his way through the portrait hole. 

Whispers followed Harry wherever he went. Like the wake of a boat, they rippled through the groups of students, conversations being snuffed in favour of discussing The Boy Who Lived Twice. Harry didn't get it; he just did what he had to. He didn't understand why people couldn't just let that be-- let _him_ be. Most of the conversations featured words like "brave" and "hero" and "courageous," but Harry didn't feel that he deserved to be called those things. Shit happened, people died, and Harry just waltzed into the woods and was about to leave it all behind. He knew that he did it because it was the only way to defeat Voldemort, but he also did it because... he was just done. He was tired, so, so tired and for a moment, he didn't just accept the inevitability of death, he _embraced_ it. It was selfish and cowardice in Harry's eyes, and he hated being forced to give speeches and go to galas and shake hands and sign autographs to people who think he was just doing what was right.

He might have done what was right, but in the end, it was for the wrong reasons.

So as first years gawked in astonishment and sixth years traded stories of the times they interacted with The Chosen One, Harry trudged on. The students parted for him like a river around a rock, and for some reason, it hurt. It made Harry feel helpless in a sense. Before the battle, people knew he was different, that he was special, yet they still treated him like any other student. But now, it felt like Harry was forced onto some sort of pedestal. Like he was an animal at the zoo, and all of these people who he thought were his friends were actually just onlookers, oohing and ahhing at him, begging him to do tricks. It felt like someone had hit a reset button, and he was just an anxious, little first year again, surrounded by curious spectators.

That feeling only grew when he walked into the Great Hall. As he made his way to the opposite side where the Gryffindor table sat, the room grew silent. The quiet spread like the plague over the room and all eyes turned to look at Harry, but every time he tried to catch someone's stare, no one was looking at him. Hermione and Ron continued to pretend like nothing was wrong when Harry sat down, making conversation and chatting about Quidditch tryouts that afternoon. As he served himself some toast, the room around Harry began to grow tumultuous once more. Ginny and a couple of other seventh year Gryffindors were teaching the first years the school song, Dean and Seamus were pointedly Not Talking about last night, and Neville was sitting over at the Slytherin table.

_Wait, what?_

Harry took a double-take, nearly dropping his goblet of pumpkin juice. Neville Longbottom was sitting at the Slytherin table with Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. Harry's jaw went slack.

"Harry, what're you looking at?" Ron asked before stuffing his face with a piece of toast piled high with bacon and eggs.

"Look at Longbottom. What's he _doing_? Is that even allowed?"

Hermione chuckled. "I'm pretty sure there are no rules dedicated to where one can and cannot sit in the Great Hall."

"Yeah, but like, what about our rules?" Harry stared completely dumbfounded as Neville laughed at something Nott said.

Hermione hit Harry with her I-Swear-to-God-Sometimes-You-Are-So-Stupid Look. "What are you talking about? Neville can do what he wants; he's a grown man." She motioned her fork at Harry, scrunching her brows together, making The Look all the more alienating. "Do I need to remind you that you are too?"

Harry rolled his eyes, then turned to face Ron. "Mate, you've gotta know what I'm talking about."

Ron looked between his best friend and his girlfriend. Hermione's dark cheeks reddened ever so slightly when he nodded his head at her. "Sorry, I kinda agree with 'Mione on this one."

Harry looked at him, the word "incredulous" written on his forehead in permanent marker. 

Ron just shrugged. "Nev's not the only one who's been getting cosy with the snakes. Parkinson and Zabini aren't that bad once you look past their whole 'I'm going to bite your face off' demeanor. I don't know about that Nott kid, though; he seems quite cold, but Neville sure has taken a liking to him."

Harry scoffs. "Neville could get a lion to purr. But that's not the point--" he turns to look at Neville, telling some story to the two Slytherins, talking with his hands and face more than his mouth. "What I'm saying is that we spend all these years hating them, fighting and squabbling with them, just so we can become all chummy in the end? Doesn't it seem a little suspect to you?"

Hermione and Ron shared a look.

"Wut?" Harry said around a mouthful of toast.

Hermione set her spoon down, grapefruit momentarily forgotten. "Well, you see, Harry, you tend to feel... a certain way about the Slytherins. A-and I'm not saying that's a bad thing! I'm just saying it's a, um, very strong feeling, and sometimes you can get a little--"

"You're over-dramatic and tend to have some stalker-like tendencies," Ron interrupted Hermione's rambling.

Harry set down his toast, confusion washing over him like waves on a shore. "What do you mean?"

Hermione twisted her coiled hair around a finger, tugging at it until it was pulled taut, and then let it spring back into its tight curl. Something she did when she was nervous, something that constantly happened during exam season. "Do you remember sixth year, and how you were, um, engrossed in the actions and intentions of a particular Slytherin boy?"

_God, they were bringing_ this _up again? And at the breakfast table, of all places?_ "Hermione, I was not _stalking_ Draco Malfoy," Harry hissed at her. "He was up to something--"

"Yes, yes, he was plotting, scheming, conniving..." Ron takes a sip of his coffee. _Black, just like his eye is going to be in a minute_ , Harry thought. "Did I cover all the bases, 'Mione?"

"Colluding." She didn't even look up from her breakfast, however, she was still pulling at her hair. "Machinating. Conspiring."

"Ah, thank you," Ron said, smiling at her. When he turned back to Harry, his mouth turned into a worried frown. "You gotta let it go, mate. The war is over, it's done. No one is planning your downfall--" When Harry started to interject, Ron gave him a severe look, "--nor anyone else's for that matter. They're just kids." 

The look Ron wore softened as his gaze fell onto a blushing Neville and a laughing pair of Slytherins. "Just like us."

"God, Ron, when'd you get so sentimental?" Harry grumbled, going back to his breakfast.

His friends chuckled. Ron shrugged. "People change, I guess. That's just how it goes, right?"

Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Ancient Runes-- all NEWT level classes, all equally tiresome. By the end of the day, Harry had a 36 inch essay for Charms (due in two days, thankfully), a chapter to read for Transfiguration, as well as a chapter and practical work for Ancient Runes, and a personal essay for DADA. Harry was just thankful that he was allowed to split his schedule for DADA and Potions in half. McGonagall had owled him a few weeks before the term began, telling him that due to his special circumstances, the Ministry would allow him to only have three year-long NEWTs, as long as he still took one semester of DADA and one semester of Potions, two classes he'd excelled in during his time at Hogwarts. It was a very generous offer, and Harry had personally visited Kingsley to thank him for it. Ron was granted a similar allowance, only having to take four year-long NEWTs to become an Auror since he didn't do as well as Harry did in Potions sixth year. Hermione was told that if she had any passion for magical politics that she there would be a waiver equal to that of Harry's, but she rejected it, not only saying that she would never work for the Ministry, but that she also would never miss out on the opportunity to learn in a professional setting like Hogwarts. She isn't exceeding five NEWTs, which Harry is thankful for, and she has just enough to pursue a career as a healer if she wishes. 

Since Hermione is taking one more class than Harry and Ron, they sit alone together in front of the fireplace at four o'clock, Harry writing his DADA essay and Ron doing some Potions homework. 

"Harry, you are so lucky they let you only take Potions next term with the seventh years. NEWT level Potions makes me want to throw my books into the fire."

"Yes, I will admit that it was complete luck that you got the brand new textbook in sixth year and I got the one the good ol' Half-Blood Prince used. I am one lucky lad."

Ron threw a crumpled up piece of parchment at him. "You lucky bastard, indeed."

Suddenly, Harry's watch chimed, alerting him that it was 4:30.

Ron cracked his knuckles. "Time to head to the pitch?" Harry nodded, spelling his work away and grabbing his duffel bag next to him. 

Tryouts went as expected; Ginny, Ron, Demelza Robins, Ritchie Coote, and Jimmy Peaks were all back on the team, with Dean Thomas joining as a new chaser. Harry didn't realise how much he'd missed flying, and using his new broom (a SilverStreak 100, the newest broom on the market. He bought two more brooms for Ron and Ginny's Christmas presents, given only a few months early. He's still planning on getting them other things, though, despite their protests) felt like flying on nothing at all. It was so responsive, much more than his Firebolt, and felt like another limb to Harry. He'd missed the feeling of the windburn on his cheeks, hair tangling, ragged breathing, and the cold sweat of an intense game. Quidditch was the one thing Harry was naturally good at; searching for a snitch was second-nature at this point, and he couldn't wait to get back on the pitch and actually compete against the other houses. 

Ron was currently slurping up his second helping of spaghetti bolognese, Hermione telling him to slow down. "You eat like an animal."

"And you like a mouse. Someone's gotta make up for it." That earned Ron a slap on the shoulder and a cheeky smirk. 

Harry's head was resting on his hand. He kept feeling like someone was watching him, but who, he couldn't figure out. Every time he looked behind him, all of the other students were doing what they should be: laughing, eating, studying. Harry still couldn't help but turn about and stare at Neville from time to time, his red robes clashing horribly amongst the dark green of the Slytherins. "You'd think he was one of them," he says to Ron and Hermione, turning away from the laughing threesome across the dining hall. 

"Holy Hera, you're still on 'bout that?" Ron says through a mouth of noodles and sauce. 

Hermione sighs. "Of course he is, Ron. It's the obsessiveness we discussed earlier."

Harry rolls his eyes, ignoring them but also not. Ron swallowed, looking at the Slytherin table again. "Speaking of the ferret, where is Draco?"

"He's been sitting with Luna during meals," Hermione said matter-of-factly. 

Harry's head almost fell off of his hand. "What."

Hermione quirked a brow. "Yeah, you haven't noticed?"

Harry looked to the Ravenclaw table where, sure enough, Draco was sitting, robes abandoned for a white button-up and trousers, chin resting on his hand, just like Harry's was moments ago. His eyes looked almost dreamy as he listened to Luna Lovegood speak, probably of magical creatures no one but her and her father could see. His hair was still slightly messy, face still white as a ghost. It made Harry want to slap him, for some reason.

"What is happening to this school?" He sipped heavily from his goblet.

"Good things, Harry." Seamus chimed in, sitting down next to them, flushed and slightly sweating.

Harry gave him a raised eyebrow. The boy chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just was helping Dean practice a bit on the pitch. He's super excited about making the team, wanted to get started right away..."

The trio shared a look, repressing chuckles. Harry spoke up first, deciding to forget about Malfoy and Neville and everything being turned on its head for the time being. "Sure, Seamus."

He scoffed, plucking a green bean from the serving dish in front of him and flinging it at Harry. "Shut up, Potter."

Harry laughed, but stopped when he felt a pair of eyes on him from behind. Turning around, he caught Draco Malfoy looking back towards Luna Lovegood, saying something to make her smile distantly. Harry turned back around. Strange it was, the Slytherin King making friends with Luna. Although, if Harry remembered correctly, they were distant cousins or something along the lines of that. They were so _different_ though, that was what was throwing Harry off. Luna was... well, Luna. Aloof. Kind. Eccentric. From what Harry had gathered of Malfoy last night (or this morning... time was weird), he was cold and analytical. A git, if Harry was being honest. But then Harry thought back to that brief encounter on Platform 9 3/4 where he seemed... Harry had no idea. Different. Kind of like Luna, now that he thought about it, the way his eyes had been clear and bright, and his expression had been so open, yet almost unfocused. Like there was so much he was trying not to show, and a little bit of everything was leaking out at once.

But now that Harry was thinking about it, why was Malfoy sitting next to Luna and not Astoria? He'd heard a rumour that they were together now, some sort of arranged relationship, pureblood tradition or whatever. But Harry'd only ever seen them together at the station. Never before, nor after. Something was off, and Harry didn't get it.

Part of him told him not to dwell on it, not to give in to what Hermione and Ron had been saying for the past day (the past year, if he was being honest). But Draco Malfoy was an enigma, always had been, and Harry still has yet to figure him out. It's been eight years, and Harry still isn't any closer to understanding the prat, but he'd be damned if he gave up now.

_____________________________________

There was only two things Draco Malfoy had never told anyone.

The first secret he kept was that his first kiss was with Blaise Zabini while they were both drunk on his Mum's yacht. A mistake Draco cringes at even now, five years later.

The second was that he told himself that he'd never sleep again.

In hindsight, Draco knew that this was an infeasible decision, but being sleep deprived and a little irritable now and then was much more manageable than the nightmares he was plagued with every night. The memories he'd tried to forget, to burn and drown and bury, they lived deep inside his inner psyche, only crawling out in the dead of night. The first time Draco woke his mother with his screams of terror, she thought he was dying. She thought someone had broken in and was in the process of carving him up like a Christmas ham. That's what happened in some of his dreams: Voldemort killing him and his family, torturing them with a blank expression while Nagini slithered across his neck. Draco could always feel the cuts and bruises even after he woke up. Other nights it was simply his father, the both of them sitting at the walnut desk in his office, telling Draco how disappointed he was in him. How Draco had brought shame to the Malfoy name. How he deserved the fate he'd received. Warmth surrounded him, on other nights, flames nipping at his fingertips, the screams of his childhood friends filling the air, a pair of green eyes his peace in the storm. 

Those are the nights Draco dreaded the most.

So instead of allowing the nightmares to come, he drank Wideye potion constantly-- kept it in a flask on his hip. The effects have been mild since he started drinking it about two months ago. If he went too long without it, Draco got shaky and light headed, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Draco's biggest issue was that he'd been building up a tolerance to it-- slow, but enough to where he's had to brew a stronger potion. Draco had heard of this sort of thing, read about the condition in some healer textbook in the Malfoy library. Potion Abuse, they called it. Draco knew that it could get bad, that he was slowly approaching the Point of No Return. But it was fine. He was fine. Draco could handle it for a little longer, a few more weeks and he'll have gone so long without having the nightmares that they'll just... disappear.

It'd be fine.

"Don't look at me like that," he said to the portrait hanging across the room, feeling its unliving eyes on him. It was hard to write an essay with Albus Dumbledore's portrait staring at you.

"I'm just saying," The subject's eyes smiled behind his half-moon spectacles, "I only ever see you in between the hours of ten and three. When do you sleep?"

Draco frowned, dipping his quill in his ink pot. "I don't."

The painting chuckled then, nodding in understanding.

Draco worked, making small talk. He knew very little of the inner workings of a magical piece of art, but he'd been reading up on it for his History of Magic summer work, and he figured talking with one would be beneficent to his understanding of them. Plus, what else was he supposed to do from dusk till dawn? Do his homework in moody silence?

"May I ask you, Draco, why it is that you don't want to sleep?"

This man was relentless. 

In the midst of Draco's work, when he was most focused, finally able to lose himself in the words, the scratch of quill on parchment-- Dumbledore decided to ask one of the Forbidden Questions. 

"That is none of your concern."

"I am aware," the portrait said, nodding slightly. Draco huffed as he misspelled Rembrandt; he always forgot the D. "But I think that part of you wants to talk about it. Or rather, part of you needs to talk about it."

Draco sighed, resting his writing hand on the table. ("Sinister!" his grandmother would always remind him as she forced him to write with his right; although he was ambidextrous, he began to solely use his left out of spite.) His hand left ink smudges on the woodgrain, masking its rich chestnut stain. "No."

"Draco, I might be able to--"

"No," Draco furrowed his brow. "You are the last person I want to--"

"Am I interrupting?"

Draco jumped and turned to face the voice to his right. "No."

Harry Potter stood, shirtless and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, once again, in the hall to the dormitories. "Are you sure?"

Draco shook his head, glancing away from sculpted abs and chiseled jawline. "Positive."

Potter walked over to him, didn't say anything. Just stood there like he didn't know what else to do.

Draco didn't look at him-- couldn't possibly. "What."

The boy shrugged. 

Draco began collecting his things, putting the cork on his ink bottle and returning his quill to its case. 

Potter sat on the hideous purple velvet couch, yawning. He had a book in his hand, Draco now noticed. As he opened it, spine cracking in the process, he called out for Kreacher, just as he did the night before. 

"Good evening, Master Har--" the house elf noticed Draco sooner than last night. Kreacher's eyes lit up and he bowed deeply to him. "Master Draco, a pleasure it is to see you!"

Draco bowed his head in response. "Same to you, Kreacher."

Potter rolled his eyes. "You can be snarky to me one second and polite to him the next..."

"Well, I believe that is how one expresses distaste for another person, but please, correct me if I'm wrong."

Potter ignored Draco's snarky response and requested a spot of tea.

Draco saw Kreacher bow hesitantly out of the corner of his eye. "A-and would Master Draco like a cup, too?"

He shut his eyes, rubbed at his left temple. Perhaps the headaches he'd been getting were also a side effect of the potion? "Yes, that'd be fine," he mumbled as he rose and searched the shelves of books that belonged to the common room. Kreacher and Potter spoke for a few moments before the crack of Kreacher's departure rang out. Draco finally found Book of Potions, Volume II and flipped to the familiar page. 

Potter interrupted his reading. "So... who were you talking to earlier?" 

Draco ignored him, or attempted to. It was only a matter of seconds before Potter repeated his question.

"Draco and I were having a discussion, Harry."

Draco shot a look at the portrait. "Go to sleep, you old coot."

Potter appeared to be stifling a laugh as he said, "Have some respect, Malfoy."

Sweet Aristophanes Draco Malfoy was going to explode if this git doesn't--

"What're you reading?"

\--shut up.

"Book of Potions, if you must know." He saw Potter nod out of the corner of his eye. Eyeballing the page, skimming for anything relevant to long-term side effects, Draco sighed. He couldn't focus with the feeling of Potter's eyes on him. It felt dozens of spiders crawling under his skin. Draco felt his face flush as he let out a small "hmph" and brought the book back to his spot at the table. Tucking it into his book bag, he saw Potter watching him to his right.

"You can't take that from the shelf."

Draco righted his posture. "Watch me."

"That's stealing," Potter said, brow furrowed.

"Not if I plan on returning it." Draco moved to sit in his chair in front of the fireplace, back now to Potter. 

The fire warmed his stocking covered toes; although he was one to be sensitive to the cold, he'd grown accustomed to the incessantly chilly Slytherin dungeons, and has even grown to prefer the temperature to that of the rest of the castle. There was just something so comforting about sitting in front of a fire, holding his hands towards the flickering flames and feeling the heat lick at his fingertips. 

He used to love fire. Was pretty good at using it, too; it was the easiest of the four elements for him to control magically. He could control flame as though he was made from it. Draco would spend hours weaving flames through his fingers when he was young enough-- conjuring a flame was elementary, even without a wand. By the time he was eleven, he didn't even need to think of the spell to summon the heat, the flames would respond to his mere desire of them, hovering directly above his palm. The Blacks had always been favoured by that element, while the Malfoys were water users through and through. Draco had always taken after his mother-- not just in magic, but in nearly everything else as well. Looks, passions, quirks. A pang of longing suddenly hit Draco. Narcissa Malfoy, aged and beginning to grey under the stress of the crimes she had been convicted of, sitting alone in Malfoy Manor, on house arrest. Along with the yearning to see his mother again, Draco felt a twinge of guilt for leaving her alone.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack to his right, signalling the return of the house elf. Draco immediately breathed in the smell of black tea as Kreacher passed him a cup. "Thank you," he said, folding his long legs under him as well as he could in the narrow armchair. Kreacher bowed, then turned to fix Harry his cup. 

The boy and the house elf conversed in low mumbles, something about Potter's house and repairs needing to be done. Draco tried to focus on his book, his tea, the fire-- anything but Potter, but he was just too damn tired to make an attempt at minding his business.

"They are getting weaker, Master Harry. Reverting back to their abandoned state. You must make a visit," the elf was saying. 

"I'm planning on Christmas break; can it wait that long?" Potter took an obnoxious sip of his drink. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Kreacher believes so, but the magic will have to be stronger. Master Harry will have to enlist in the help of his friends or the Ministry of Magic to rework the wards after experiencing the grief and emptiness of late."

Draco turned towards the two, the elf's words catching his attention. "I never thought about that... Oh, Potter, you've got a mess on your hands, now don't you?"

Potter screwed his face up, turning to Draco. "What's that supposed to mean?" He looked to Kreacher. "The wards are grieving?"

"Since the Blood Traitor's death, the house has been in a state of mourning. Although he was burnt out of the Black family tree, the Traitor was always loved by the home. Kreacher does not have a clue why; Kreacher found the Traitor filthy at the best of times."

Potter's face remained in a state of perplexity, though he remained silent. _Figures. Even when he doesn't understand something, his pride disallows room for curiosity._

"Wizarding families tend to pick a place and stay in it, as I'm sure you're aware," Draco began explaining. "The homes that wizards build have magic within them-- in their walls, in their foundations, in the land itself-- and over time, if lived in by a bloodline long enough, can grow sentient. They develop feelings and habits and such just as any other wizard would. And if a member of that family leaves or passes on, the house loses some of its magic."

Potter's look of confusion had melted by then and was turned into one of wonderment. "When Sirius Black died, a part of the house died with him, as he was the last blood heir," Draco continued. "And if you don't set your wards in place soon, the house could lose all it's magic."

Kreacher nodded, looking like he was about to be sick. "The Estate will disappear if Master Harry does nothing about the wards."  
  


Draco nodded. "Since the house is made from magic, if the wards die out-- if the magic and energy with in it dies, so will the estate."

Potter was silent for a moment, his eyes glazed over with something Draco couldn't place. Draco sipped at his tea, a strange sense of melancholy washing over him; Potter would not let the house die-- would he? Why should he care anyway; it wasn't Potter's home to begin with. Draco wondered if the boy felt only a sense of obligation to the house rather than actual cherishment for the property. Perhaps it was just another one of Potter's endless benevolent deeds; who knows what is going on in the git's head. 

"Are you sure it can last till Christmas, Kreacher?" Potter looked stricken. Maybe he actually did care.

"Kreacher will have to discuss it further with the house and the mistress," the house elf rubbed his neck anxiously, eyes darting from his feet to Potter and back again, "but he is quite sure."

"Alright." Potter's face revealed that he was a bit unsure of what Kreacher meant by "discuss it... with the house" but Draco kept his mouth shut. _Maybe if he actually paid attention in History of Magic instead of passing notes to Weasle, he'd know what the hell we are talking about_ , Draco thought. "I'll let Hermione know. I'll owl you the plan sometime tomorrow."

Kreacher bowed, taking that as his dismissal. "Very good, Master Harry. Kreacher will be awaiting its arrival." He turned to Draco, bowing once more. "Kreacher thanks Master Draco for his kindness. He hopes he'll be seeing Master Draco more often."

Draco nodded to him, bowing his own head slightly. "Of course, Kreacher."

The elf looked pleased with himself as he gathered the tea set. "Actually," Potter interrupted him, "You can leave that with me. I don't want to keep waking you up in the night for a cup of tea."

Kreacher's satisfied expression quickly changed to one of hurt. "Has Kreacher done something to displease the masters?"

Potter's face reddened, ears and neck darkening right along with it. "No, not at all! I just don't want to bother you so much, especially when the house needs your presence more than ever."

Although he still looked crestfallen, Kreacher nodded. "Kreacher understands. Kreacher will send Master Harry's tea back to Hogwarts with his owl come tomorrow."

Draco smiled, just a little. 

"Goodnight, Kreacher," Potter said, officially dismissing him, and Kreacher was gone with a crack.

Draco quickly downed the rest of his tea, leaving his now empty cup on the coffee table in front of Potter. "Thank you again for the tea."

As Draco collected his things, he heard Potter mumble a soft, "You're welcome," and a goodnight. When Draco turned to look at him before sneaking out to spend some time alone in the courtyard, the boy was already gone, tea set and book having vanished with him. Draco wondered what Potter's little late night tea parties were all about, what their purpose served. Draco couldn't give two shits, honestly, but his curiosity got the best of him. Did the nightmares that he so often had when he slept plague The Boy Who Lived in the same way? Was the tea Potter's little version of a late night therapy session? Draco's mind wandered as he put on his cloak and slipped into the darkness of the dungeon corridor. 

No matter how many different thoughts were floating around in Draco's head, the ones about Potter always seemed to be the most intriguing.

But by the time he got to the courtyard, the cold nipping at his nose and fingertips, he was beginning to focus on his homework, particularly his half written charms essay that was due in the morning. So he found a spot on a cement bench in front of the fountain and set to work, only reaching the thirty six inches required of him as the sun began to rise. His fingers were numb by that point and he was surprised that Mrs. Norris hadn't stumbled upon him. Taking a swig out of his flask, Draco made his way back to his dorm room, mind once again drifting back to The Boy Who Lived Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna & Draco friendship? I think yes! Luna is going to be having a *big* impact on Draco in this story because I think that their relationship dynamic is just so interesting. Anyways, hope y'all like what's happening so far.
> 
> And can we talk about Harry real quick? I like to think that he got his stubbornness from his mother, but like, times four haha. So in this chapter we see a lot of him dealing with changes to social life at Hogwarts. This is another thing I want to explore with this fic, so if you have any ideas, leave them below!
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone xx
> 
> Sidenote, I have a tumblr! @sneezied I won't be super active on it atm, but I post lots of fandom stuff and it's just a really good time. Give it a follow, if you like :)
> 
> Sending my thanks and good vibes your way,  
> Will


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: In case you are a reader who has been with me since the beginning of this fic (hi! I love you!!), you may notice that there is half of the chapters than originally published. This is no accident! I ended up combining chapters to make them a bit longer and to overall have a more cohesive reading experience. Nothing has changed plot-wise-- the only difference is that chapters one/two are now one chapter, three/four are now one chapter, so on and so forth. Thanks for bearing with me while I work out the oddities of writing lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I've missed writing so much. Please enjoy this new chapter, and make sure to read the end notes for some important updates and info. Thanks guys :)

Maybe Hermione and Ron were right. Harry hated to admit it, but there was more than possibility to the thought, because he could not keep his eyes off of that damn Malfoy.

For one, it was increasingly obvious to Harry that he was, in fact, at one point or another, maybe a little bit obsessed with the git. He had the faintest memories of staying up until the break of dawn staring at the Marauder's Map, waiting for "MALFOY" to appear in tiny font, along with even tinier footsteps, revealing his exact location. He also remembered going down to the Quidditch Pitch in his invisibility cloak to watch him practice, and even following Malfoy back into his common room afterward to make sure he wasn't plotting or whatnot. But Harry had always told himself that he was doing it to protect his friends, his fellow students, his _home_. 

But sadly, Harry had no such excuse to lean on this time around.

At breakfast, he sat, his eyes glued to the blond's back as he sat with Luna, eating crumpets and jam. Although he hadn't said anything, not a word about Malfoy, his friends made it clear to Harry that they were not in the mood for another Malfoy Rant, similar to the one they'd received the day prior. This caused Harry to ramble off a few meek attempts at defending himself, which were immediately shut down by Ron and Hermione. The pair had then changed the subject to easier things, like Ron's excitement for Quidditch practice that evening and Hermione's feelings towards her NEWT level classes, leaving Harry to stew on the fact that Malfoy was sitting at the Ravenclaw table like he was sorted there.

It drove him mad. And well so, he thought. No one else in the hall sat any table but their house's. Well, besides, Neville. But this morning Neville was sitting at his assigned table, chatting Seamus and Dean up about Circe knows what. But Malfoy was sitting with Luna once more. Harry wondered why he hadn't brought it up last night-- perhaps it was because Malfoy was actually tolerable in their discussion of wards and wizarding homes. He seemed quite knowledgeable about the subject, too. Maybe even more so than Hermione. Which reminded Harry that he needed to discuss such things with his best friend. 

"Hey, 'Mione," Harry asked when the couple in front of him had quieted for a moment to sip at their teas. "You were planning on spending Christmas at Ron's, right?"

Her eyes shifted from Harry's to Ron's, her lips pursing after a sip of her drink. "Well, you see Harry," she said, returning her cup to its saucer. "Ron was actually going to come over to mine this year."

And suddenly that familiar melancholy feeling washed over Harry again. Hermione went on, smiling at her boyfriend, unaware of Harry's sudden change in demeanour. "My mum and dad have wanted to spend time with Ron for so long, and I've been practically living at the burrow all summer... They thought it'd be a wonderful opportunity." 

Ron was smiling back at her. So he'd known and not even bothered to tell Harry. Neither of them had. Well that was just _cheery_. "Yeah," Ron chimed in, not-so-subtly taking Hermione's hand beneath the table. "Mum is rather disappointed I'll be gone, but she seems to understand how big this is."

Harry nodded, a faux smile overcoming his features. "Yeah, makes sense."

Hermione gave Ron one final look and then turned back to her porridge. "Why do you ask, Harry?"

"Oh, no reason." He decided not to bring up his troubles with Grimmauld Place. He'd just have to spend some extra time in the library to figure out how in God's name he was going to save that house. 

"Mum's still expecting you over break, Harry," Ron somehow got out around a mouthful of sausage and toast. "I'll be back Christmas day, too. That was our deal."

Harry shrugged. "I'll try to make it."

Harry ate the rest of his breakfast in silence, eyes still glued to that certain Slytherin. There was an alternative to going to the library, hell, even an alternative to Hermione. But Harry wouldn't ever consider it. Not when Flobberworms fly.

________

Harry was sitting through his third hour of classes-- Transfiguration with the Slytherins. He was having a hard time paying attention to McGonagall as she lectured about the proper eloquence of a solid-to-liquid transformation spell. His head was just full of too many thoughts. He'd stopped by the library during lunch and checked out a book (yes, he checked it out rather than stole it, thankyouverymuch) about wards-- _Wards Without Restrictions: How to Spell, Charm, and Dance Your Way Through Them._ Ms. Pince told him it was essentially the most basic book for wards out there; the title seemed to be reminiscent of all of those Muggle books with "For Dummies" in their taglines. So instead of paying attention to the actual lesson the professor-turned-headmaster was trying to teach, Harry had the book hidden beneath the lip of his desk, chapter three ("What's With the Sparkly Blue Lights?") in front of him. 

> _You've done the spellwork; you've done the chants, the movements, everything necessary to actually raise the wards and ask them to show themselves-- and aren't they beautiful? The colour of the wards corresponds to the health of the house: pale, bright wards show a healthy, well-lived in home while darker, duller wards tend to be in new homes or dying homes. If your wards look anything like the latter, you should seek help from a well practiced wards master or a Ministry Official. If your wards are somewhere between the two descriptions, it is probably because the house has seen few wizards in its lifetime. To fix this issue, one must simply--_

"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall's shrill voice pierced the air and interrupted his reading. His textbook and his quill case were both puddles on his desk. 

Harry quickly shut the book and looked at his professor, slightly cowering under her intense glare. Although Minerva McGonagall was well into middle age, her severity was at its peak. Her left brow was raised so high it disappeared beneath her wide-brimmed hat. "Yes, Professor?"

She raised her other eyebrow, earning a snicker from Ron, who was to Harry's left. Her eyes darted over to him, looking like a cat who was ready to pounce. "Oh, and I suppose you, Mr. Weasley, would also like to lose Gryffindor some house points?"

"N-No, Professor," Ron mumbled, smirk melting off his face as he looked back to his parchment. 

McGonagall trained her sights on Harry once more. Her eyes caught his through her glasses, their chains glinting in the midafternoon sun. Harry was thankful for the buffer between her line of sight and his. "Ten points from Gryffindor. Now, spell your items back to their original state of being."

Harry did so flawlessly, to McGonagall's surprise, and, as soon as her back was to him, he reopened _Wards Without Resistance_. While he did so, the professor hissed, without turning around, "And put that dastardly book away, Potter!"

Harry sighed, but did as he was told. As he grabbed his quill to jot some notes down, he caught the eye of Malfoy, who sat across the room. He sat with proper posture, and continued to write as he snickered at Harry. Harry couldn't tell if he was mocking him or if he was laughing with him; but since when did Draco Malfoy laugh _with_ anyone? So Harry shot him a dirty look and scribbled down something about changing an object's state of matter.

From that point on, throughout the class, Harry's eyes would find Malfoy's. Why, he wasn't sure, but it sure as hell pissed him off. He also didn't know why it made his blood boil, but the thought of Malfoy looking at him made Harry want to punch something. No matter how many times Harry's eyes drifted off to that side of the room, they always seemed to meet a pair of glassy grey ones. Draco Malfoy had soft eyes, which was strange for a bloke such as him. Everything about him was sharp-edges: pointy chin, knobby arms and legs, prominent collarbones-- 

Harry's eyes snapped back down to his parchment. He'd ripped a decently-sized hole in the paper as he was writing. Lovely. He saw Hermione side-eye him and shake her head in his peripheral as he hurriedly cast a _Repario_. Well, he didn't really cast it, per sae. Sometimes, spells worked without him having to say anything-- or without even thinking about it, really. It was like an automatic kind of thing for Harry, like breathing or blinking. That kind of magic only worked with very simple prospects, such as turning on a light or knotting his tie in the morning. Most times, it just sort of happened before Harry really put any thought into it. The thing that made it especially strange, however, was that Harry was absolute shite at nonverbal spells when he actually tried. 

Harry supposed that was just how life went for him, though. But there was only so much irony that one could take; things had to start turning around sooner or later. He knew it. But until then, Harry was going to spend his days studying for courses that didn't really matter and spend his nights with his childhood enemy. It was sad how _that_ was the closest his life had ever been to "normal," wasn't it?

_____________________________

A month had passed since Draco and Harry had began spending their evenings together, or rather, since Potter had been crashing Draco's nighttime routine of not sleeping, doing homework, and making more Wideye Potion. He'd said it before and he'll say it again: it was weird. It was so weird to spend time with Potter, to drink tea at three in the morning and pretend like it was the most normal thing in the world. But alas, there they were, Draco sitting in the high-backed-chair and Potter sitting on the floor, sipping on their respective drinks on another early Wednesday morning. 

"What'd you get for 7.E?"

"Um..." Draco shuffled through the dozen pieces of parchment in his lap. "It was something about ravens... Ah, here it is: 'The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.' Quoted William Shakespeare, I believe."

As Draco turned towards Potter, he could already tell that the latter had gotten it wrong. "Really? I got 'The coughing crow...'"

Draco snorted. "Well, whose do you think sounds more correct?"

Potter tutted and began scratching out his answer. Draco smiled a little, despite himself.

Throughout their time spent together, Draco had learned a lot about Harry Potter. He knew how Potter took his tea, how much he hated Runes class, and how he could never seem to shut up when Draco needed silence. Even though working with Potter-- if you could call it that-- was strange, he made a better study partner than Draco would ever have thought. He took diligent notes (when he actually was paying attention in class) and seemed eager to do well. The way he always seemed like he was trying to prove himself to everyone, it was familiar to Draco. Familiar in a way that still hurt too much to describe. And although Draco would like to think he knew Potter pretty well by now, studying and small talk was about as personal as it got between them. The things they discussed were all quite surface level. Any conversations about more personal topics were strictly off limits, and both tended to stay away from subjects of the like. And if something like that did happen to come up, it almost always turned into an argument, or an awkward silence at the very least. Draco was good at pretending he didn't notice them, but Potter was a nightmare; he'd fidget, clear his throat, tap his quill, bounce his leg-- almost like he was trying to get under Draco's skin. But despite all of Potter's constant whining and complaining and not so subtle glaring at Draco... it was nice to have company. It was nice to bicker with someone other than Dumbledore's portrait at three a.m., and it was nice for it to be Potter. Draco-- although he'd never say it outloud-- was thankful for the opportunity to finally get to know and spend time with him; he'd be lying if he tried to deny the sort of attraction he'd always had toward the boy. It was the kind of chemistry that one couldn't describe. It tended to remind him of Mercutio and Tybalt, always dancing around each other, always picking a fight without good reason. Draco supposed that if he and Potter were the two duelists, then Neville or Luna would be their Benvolio. Typical.

Annoyed and presumably tired, The Boy Who Lived huffed and set his work out on the coffee table in front of him, bringing Draco out of his slight daze. Potter leaned back on his elbows, groaning and scrunching his face up into a pout.

"I'm sick of Runes and we aren't even half way through the year yet."

Draco turned back to his work, continuing to translate the given prompts. "Uh huh."

Potter looked at him. His eyes narrowed into a look that one would normally call scrutinising, but on him, it just looked painful. "You're not even listening, are you?"

"Oh, I'm listening. I just don't care enough to respond."

Potter chuckled, slumping forward again. The air was easy between them tonight, and there was something about the chill of the mid-October air in the dungeons that made them more relaxed. For Draco, it was the familiarity of it all. He'd spent countless nights in the Slytherin common room, curled up in front of the fire with Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, all huddling together while discussing the events of the past day, breathing in the same air as he was now.

"How can you stand to do this every night?" Potter tapped his fingers on the desk idly as he spoke.

"I just do."

"Strange." He sighed, shaking out his writing hand and setting back to work. "You see, I prefer to do my homework during the day, like a normal person."

Draco smirked. "You are anything but normal."

It was the kind of thing Draco typically said with malice, but to both him and Potter's surprise, it had a lot less bite to it than usual. Almost like, does he dare say it, a _compliment_.

He cleared his throat and turned back to his parchment, a meek attempt at distracting them both from the awkward quiet that followed his declaration. Desperatley needing a change of subject, Draco blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "So. How is everything with the Black estate going?"

"Fine, I suppose. Or as well as can be expected."

That wasn't really an answer. Draco hummed, finishing the last translation on his problem set. "I take it that Granger will be helping you with the ward raising business, then?"

Potter remained quiet at that, shrugging his shoulders.

"Potter, she either is or isn't, there is no in-between."

He shrugged again. Before Draco could snap at him, however, he mumbled out, "She's not. She's got plans."

"What?" Draco bristled at just the mere implication that there was something more important than what was happening with Grimmauld Place-- at least where these teenagers were concerned. "This is a matter of _life or_ _death_ , and she's too 'busy'?"

Potter sighed deeply, but Draco could tell that at least part of him agreed. "It's her first Christmas with Ron as a couple."

"Then I don't see why he just doesn't join the two of you," Draco said snarkily. "The Big Three, The Golden Trio-- saving the world and collapsing homes since '91."

Potter rolled his eyes, head following their motion and lolling to the side. "And interrupt their 'couple time' together? Yeah, no thanks."

The way he said that indicated that Draco had hit a sore spot. He hadn't meant to, he just-- Circe, it was selfish of them to not help Potter. "Well," he started, putting his completed homework away, "Who's taking your case then?"

Potter quirked a brow as he dipped his now dry quill in its ink pot. "What?"

"Who will be helping you restore the wards?"

Silence. Long and brutal silence-- with each second, Draco's fear for the poor house grew exponentially. 

"Er..." Potter began, eloquently. "Me?"

Draco dropped the book he was putting into his bag, landing in it with a harsh thunk. "You didn't even know that there was a difference between a normal house and a wizarding house a month ago, and you think you're qualified to save one by yourself?"

Harry's face flushed, and the way he bashfully scratched his neck only made Draco want to slap him even more. "I've read a lot about them, and Kreacher will be there to help so..."

They both let the conversation drop for a moment. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, hating himself for what he was about to say. Should he? If he didn't, the house would die, but, if he did, that'd mean...

Sweet Aristophanes, Draco really liked to make life more difficult for himself sometimes. "I'll do it."

He said the words with so much conviction that Potter finally abandoned his horrid posture for something a little more respectable. "...You'll do what, exactly?"

Draco folded his hands in his lap, cementing the idea that yes, he really was doing this, into his head. "I'll help you with the wards."

Potter adjusted his glasses. "What makes you think you're qualified to save this house?"

"Well, for starters," Draco said, trying to keep his voice level, "I have spent years in a pureblood wizarding home and have extensive knowledge of how one works. I've raised the manor's wards plenty of times and have placed my own before. Secondly, the Black estate is familiar with me, even though I haven't been there in over a decade," At this point, his voice sounded reminiscent of Granger's, and it filled Draco with an odd feeling-- not quite disgust, but perhaps resentment? "It'll take a while, maybe a couple of days to adjust to my presence, but once it does, the home will work with me a lot more freely than it would with you."

"Oh?" Potter said it like it was a challenge, crossing his arms over his chest. "I stayed in that house while working with the Order, and even afterward when necessary, which--"

"And did you ever realise that the house was sentient?" Draco's voice wasn't brash, nor were his words filled with ill-intent. He simply wanted Potter to see things his way, the way any wizard with a basic understanding of magical homes would see things, and arguing with the boy certainly wasn't going to get him there. "Did you ever notice the house adjusting to your presence? Did you ever notice the small quirks that came with it, things you couldn't move or couldn't fix because it seemed like the house just wouldn't let you?"

After a moment, Harry shook his head slowly and an unreadable look passed over his face. Draco continued. "The house may be in your name, Potter, but you are by no means its owner. You were unable to provide the house with the respect one would normally give it, if they knew of its magical history. Thus, it will not respect you, and it certainly will not allow you to raise its wards until you've earned its respect," he looked like he was going to defend himself against Draco, but the blond kept going before Potter could get a word in. "It's not necessarily your fault. Maybe if you'd paid a bit more attention during school, you would've had even the most basic of ideas about wizarding homes and the such, but to be fair, you've been a bit preoccupied for the past seven and a half years..."

Potter smiled a little at that and sent a shrug Draco's way. The way they were sitting, interacting with each other, was familiar to Draco. The light bickering, the slow smiles Potter sent him, the now relaxed posture-- it was the same routine they'd had for the past few weeks. And for some reason, Draco could never get over one of Potter's famous half-smiles without feeling like he was about to burst into flames. Luna's voice filled his head as Draco tried to ignore the slight flush he felt coming on, _Despite the irony of it, I think you look good in crimson._

"Anyways," he continued, "My point is that you need someone experienced with wards. And having a Ministry-appointed wards master would probably be near impossible over the holidays because of their ridiculously small task force. So with the Ministry and Granger both out of the equation, it would be in your best interest to take me on for the job."

Potter looked thoughtful (for once in his life). Draco knew the implications of what he was proposing, knew what kind of metaphorical lines he would be crossing. But if he ignored it-- and the growing feeling of pure _dread_ in the pit of his stomach-- maybe everything would be alright. At least until holiday break. And besides, Draco had a responsibility here. He owed it to his family and to the Black name to make sure the house was cared for; he may not have been the heir of the home, but from recent events, it was obvious the true heir needed some guidance, whether he would admit it or not. 

"Fine."

Draco was cast out of his stupor by Potter's monosyllabic agreement. He nodded, a little surprised at how quickly Potter came to his decision. "Well, good. I'll make arrangements with my probation auror to stay at Grimmauld Place over the holiday." Draco began to grab the items necessary to draft the letters required of him. "The Ministry is bound to go overboard with paperwork, so I'll bring you your share of it as soon as possible."

"Wait," Potter shook his head, looking over to Draco. "What do you mean stay at Grimmauld Place?"

Draco looked at him quizzically. "What do you expect me to do, get a new travel allowance every day my presence is required at your estate?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, but I don't see why--"

"The only places I'm allowed to travel back and forth from are Hogwarts and my home-- and even then the Ministry tracks my every move." Draco pushed his shoulders back, refused to let go of his pride, even when there was so little of it left. "They see me as an ex-death eater, Potter. They aren't going to let me walk free just because wizard-kind's saviour asked politely."

The air stilled between them. Draco felt like he'd said something wrong, but it was all true. He was seen as a villain in the eyes of history, and not even Potter's public defence of him to the Wizengamot during Draco's trial could change that. "I guess that's true..." Potter's eyes wandered to Draco's left arm, and for a moment, just a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe. _Did he really think...?_

Draco crossed his arms, looking away from Potter's judging gaze. "I do believe I have some work to do, so, if you wouldn't mind..."

"No, not at all," Harry stood, stretching an arm across his chest. "I should be heading to sleep anyway. Thank you. For..." He shrugged, looking everywhere but at Draco. "...the help."

Draco bit his lip. Part of him wanted to remind Potter that he wasn't doing this for _him_ , he was doing it for his family, for the house, for his own goddamn piece of mind-- but he just nodded. Potter collected his things then turned on his heel, making his way to the boy's dorms. And Draco sat there, staring at the Gryffindor's bedroom door long after it shut.

Draco not only owed Harry his help, but he _wanted_ to help Harry. He truly wanted to, and perhaps that was the worst part of this whole debacle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a gentle reminder: As many fandom conventions have been cancelled/rescheduled this season due to the virus, many people in our community (specifically) are not only suffering physically, but financially as well. If you could take the time to talk to, spread word of, or even donate to/purchase from fan artists, writers, or cosplayers you love, do so. Obviously monetary support is amazing and has very immediate effects for any content creator, but many of us cannot give our support in that way at this time. Even reposting their work (with permission/credit, of course!) or just taking the time to tell them that you admire and appreciate them helps content creators just as much in the long run!
> 
> And finally, thanks for reading. Comments and suggestions are appreciated-- kudos as well; they let me know that you guys actually want more of this story, haha. I hope you enjoyed this new chapter. If you did, please keep an eye out for more of my content! 
> 
> Sending love, support, and well-wishes in these crazy times,  
> Will
> 
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> (We hit 420 hits while this chapter was in the works... nice. Next milestone is 690. We can do this, everyone.)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CROW. With that author's note (Nov. 2020 Update: that A/N has been deleted) I posted last night, we gained TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY SEVEN HITS *screams*  
> Thank you all so much! It really made my afternoon to see all of you checking up on my little ol' fic :') Hope you all have a splendid evening, and without further ado, please enjoy this long awaited chapter!

Harry awoke to the sound of Ron snoring loudly and Dean and Seamus whispering to each other as they got ready for the day. It was quite a cold Saturday morning for it only being early-November, but Harry didn't mind the chill in the air. He sat up in bed, stretching out his arms and legs, feeling the satisfying crack of his joints as he woke himself up. His sleeping habits may have been poor, but at least he slept deeply when he finally did manage to stay asleep. Three to five hours a night may not have sounded like a lot, but Harry could survive off of it. 

Last night, after his study session with Malfoy, Harry had slept better than he had in a long time. No nightmares, no tossing or turning. Just blissful, dreamless sleep. He had to shake himself out of it, shrug off the blankets before he fell back asleep and missed breakfast. 

"G'morning, Harry!" Neville greeted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as Harry drew back the curtains of his bed. 

Harry yawned in response, slipping on his slippers. 

"Is the team ready for the game today?" Neville asked, tugging off his pajama shirt. 

Harry grabbed some day clothes from their place in his and Ron's shared wardrobe as he said, "I think so." It was the first match of the season: Gryffindor against Slytherin. Harry and the rest of the team had been training quite hard to get up to par with what was rumoured to be the most talented Slytherin team yet. There were a few new faces, but Harry only cared about their captain-- and his rival seeker. 

"Well, I'm sure you all will do great!" Neville responded, a little too loudly. Ron started awake with a grunt and, nearly falling out of his bed, struggled to whip his curtains open. The ginger chewed out Neville while Harry finished getting dressed for the day.

He and Malfoy had been teasing each other for weeks about the first match of the season. They talked big, sure, but it was all in good fun. This was the first time Harry would face off against Malfoy and not have the mad desire of rubbing his outstanding victory in the blond's face. (Okay, he definitely would still rub it in his face, but out of camaraderie rather than loathing.) It was strange for Harry to be enjoying this weird sort of friendship with Malfoy, but he just... he needed a friend. Hermione and Ron were drifting further away each day, and things were still a little awkward between Dean and Seamus ever since the whole kissing thing at the beginning of the year. (Which was ridiculous; it was obvious they liked each other, but they just wouldn't admit it.) And the only other person who didn't treat Harry like some-- some _saviour_ or whatever, was Draco. He may not have been as much of a bigot as he once was, but he was still a tosser to Harry. It made him feel more human, the teasing and pestering, and, somehow, he liked the strange friendship they've formed. It was familiar to Harry in this new and surprisingly ordinary reality he's been thrown into. Which was ironic, since Harry hated being thrown into the whole saving-the-world gig in the first place, but now... he sort of missed it.

Harry spent his summer on the Weasley's back porch. He sat there, for hours, doing absolutely _nothing_ because that was what he wanted, right? That was what he'd asked for: mundanity, simplicity. Sure, sometimes he'd play a Seeker's game or two with Ginny, and yeah, he took a couple of trips to Bill and Fleur's home to spend the day at the beach with the family, but everything felt so empty to Harry. His greater purpose was fulfilled, his hero's journey came full circle... so where was his happy ending? There were so many loose threads in Harry's life, so many unknowns, that it kept him up at night. Faces of those he loved haunted him, long, cold fingers stung his skin, and the screams of those he cared about were the backing track to the nightmares that played in his head every time he went to sleep. And it was so _exhausting_. But what was somehow even worse was the smiling faces and the healthy relationships of those around him, expecting him to just become this normal person who could do... normal things. What "normal" entailed, Harry didn't even know. But regardless of what it was supposed to be, Harry hated it. Because normal meant quiet, and quiet had this nasty habit of being the perfect breeding ground of darkness and self-loathing that made Harry just so tired all of the time...

When did he get to the Great Hall?

Harry's been doing that a lot too, lately: getting so caught up in his thoughts, in his head, that he couldn't remember doing things. His body kept going while his mind stayed rooted in place, stuck in the quicksand of whatever dark thoughts that had momentarily consumed his being. But he tried not to think about it too much, because the more he thought, the more stuck he felt and the more panicky he became, and it was a metaphysical roundabout that Harry couldn't seem to get out of. So, despite not really remembering the walk there, Harry ignored his stupid brain and made his way to his usual spot. He plopped down across from Hermione and poured himself a cup of tea. They bid each other good morning and exchanged other pleasantries-- far too formal for people who were supposed to be best friends. But that's how things were between them now. Harry missed his friend, yet she was sitting right in front of him. _How is it that you can go from nearly avoiding death together to awkwardly chatting about the weather over eggs and toast in a matter of months?_

When Ron joined them, things became a little easier. Hermione was always more talkative with him around, and words seemed to come more naturally to Harry when Ron was a part of the conversation. But it still made his stomach turn to think that his friendship with Hermione relied on Ron's presence so heavily now. It made his tea taste bitter and his toast taste stale.

He ate his meal anyway.

_____________

After breakfast, the three of them made their way back to the common room. Ron and Hermione led the way, while Harry lagged behind them, smiling and nodding whenever someone would wish him luck with the game that afternoon or thanked him for his "heroic actions" once more. It seemed that the first years were never going to treat him like a peer. Harry didn't mind it too much, anymore; they were young, and the way their eyes shone with childlike wonder was refreshing to him. He sometimes just wished all of their enthusiasm was thanks to his Quidditch plays or his friendly disposition rather than his celebrity status.

While doing his Smile and Nod routine with a group of passing fourth years, someone nudged Harry in the side. He turned, an apology on the tip of his tongue for running into the other person, only to find Malfoy with two bound pamphlets in his hands. "Potter," he greeted. His hair was tidy, as was his button up and slacks that he wore during the weekends. But the bags under his eyes and the slight strain to his voice gave away how tired he was. Harry had tried to ask Draco why he seemed to avoid sleep, but getting it out of him proved to be a far more difficult task than getting the answers to their Runes homework.

"Goodmorning, Malfoy."

They walked in comfortable silence until they made it to the staircase leading to the dungeons. Hermione and Ron had split off from them without a word, probably heading to the library to study before the game. They started doing that recently, just sort of ditching Harry without so much as a goodbye. It only bothered him a little; it wasn't like he never went off to spend some time alone.

"Alright," Malfoy said, clearing his throat. "The ministry sent the paperwork we both need to fill out in order for me to stay with you during break, and I must say, it's--"

"Wait," Harry stopped before the stairs, knowing they were about to switch their path to one that would lead to the kitchens instead of the dungeons. He began to make his way to the hidden staircase to his left, as the moving staircases wouldn't change position for another ten minutes. "Did you not speak to Kingsley?"

Malfoy followed him behind the tapestry that concealed the staircase. "No, I've been owling my parole auror for the past week. Why would the Minister of Magic take the time to talk to _me_ , Potter?"

Harry shrugged, leading them down the dimly lit staircase. Torches adorned either side of the tunnel, lit indefinitely with a preservation charm, Harry supposed. "I owled him about our situation and he said he was making way with a movement to allow you to assist me with Grimmauld Place."

"What should that entail?"

Harry shrugged. "Some tracking potion they needed time to whip up, I don't know specifics. He just said to let him handle it," Harry stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for Malfoy to catch up. "But with the potion, you should be able to come and go as you please over break."

Malfoy continued walking, Harry turning on his heel to stay at the blond's side. His long legs made it difficult for Harry to keep pace without obviously speed walking, but he didn't mind it too much. "I assume I'll still need an auror to follow me around?" Malfoy's voice was bitter, filled with something close to disgust, but not quite. 

"As long as I'm with you, you can go anywhere you like," Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at his feet while he walked. "Well, anywhere besides Knockturn Alley and places of the like."

Malfoy stopped in the middle of the corridor. He mirrored Harry's stance, hands in pockets, eyes looking anywhere but at Harry. "You are aware that I have no desire to practice Dark Magic."

It wasn't a question. Harry turned to him, nodding. "Of course, it's just a precautionary thing Kingsley needs to enforce..." He finally looked at Draco's face. It was blank, and carefully so. Harry could see something there, in the way his eyebrows were just slightly furrowed, how his shoulders were just a little too far forward. "You know," he tried, continuing down the narrow corridor, "It didn't take much convincing for Kingsley to let you help me."

Draco easily caught up to Harry (curse his long legs yet again). "Why would it? You're Harry Bloody Potter."

Harry smirked at the way Malfoy spit it out. "And he knows that Harry Bloody Potter has a good judge of character."

"I wouldn't say that," the second tapestry was in sight, the exit to the main hall in the dungeons behind it. Harry turned to look at Malfoy. He found him grinning, dare he say, almost cheekily. It was refreshing after seeing him looking like he'd tasted something sour just moments prior. "You seem to befriend all kinds of dangerous creatures. I'm sure that at least 75% of your friends could easily destroy all of Hogwarts in a matter of seconds, if they wanted to."

"Yeah, but that's the thing," Harry pulled back the tapestry for Malfoy, "I know they never would want to."

After making sure the passage was properly concealed, Harry made his way to Malfoy's side in front of the mirror that was the door to their common room. Neither of them bowed to it, staring at their own reflections. It was strange seeing how different they both looked, especially how different they looked _together_. They were so... grown up. They were completely different people than when they first met, and it made Harry's skin crawl thinking of their first meeting back in Madam Malkin's. Harry's eyes met Malfoy's-- the same piercing gray they've always been. 

"Potter, I--"

"I trust you." Draco's eyebrows shot up; that's the only thing that told Harry that he was surprised to be hearing this. "Maybe not with my life, but... I trust you not to take it, either," he said, and he didn't really know what else to say, but he just kept talking, trying to prove some point that he wasn't even sure he wanted to make. "I trust you to not be evil. I can tell that you've changed, or that maybe I misjudged you before, I don't know, but I'm hoping that--" he looked away from Draco's reflection, eyeing his own in the mirror. It was easier to say this to his own face rather than Malfoy's. "--Maybe I can try to figure that out. You've actually been a decent human being recently, contrary to popular belief, but you're still a know it all. And just a real prick, but--"

"I'm going to stop you before the compliments you paid me are outweighed by the following insults." Draco shoved one bundle of the paperwork he was carrying into Harry's arms and then quickly bowed to the mirror, his voice sounding tight and a little higher pitched than normal. But when he passed Harry into the short corridor that led to the common room, he could see a light blush dusting the backs of the pale man's neck and ears. "I trust you too," is all he said before the mirror closed behind him. Harry didn't have time to squeeze through after he finally came to his senses.

Because, honestly, a blushing Malfoy was the last thing he'd expected to see today.

_____________

It was surprisingly warm out on the pitch; the sun shone bright in the middle of a stunning blue sky, no clouds in sight, and the temperature had creeped up to a brisk 7 degrees celsius. Although the air itself wasn't all that warm, the sunlight draped across Harry's shoulders like a blanket. The cheering of hundreds of students and staff members alike followed Harry and his team as they made their way to the centre of the field, brooms in hand. Madam Hooch greeted the Gryffindors and their opposing team. "Alright, first game of the season. Most of ya have done this before, but for our first timers: welcome to your respective team. Now, captains, please step forward."

Harry did as he was told. Malfoy weaved his way through his other team members, eyes finding Harry's. 

"Now shake."

This was traditional; every Quidditch game played on the Hogwarts pitch began with a handshake between the two team captains before the referee threw the quaffle. Harry was used to it, but it felt... different this time around. Looking at Malfoy, with a scowl on his face and annoyingly (un)perfect hair, Harry just, God, he didn't even know what he was feeling. But before, when he would grip Malfoy's hand and look him in the eye, it felt like there was a fire deep in his stomach. And also like he wanted to punch something (preferably the prick's stupid face), but now...

"Remember our deal."

Malfoy's voice was low, low enough for only Harry to hear it. They smirked at each other as they slapped palms, fingers wrapping around each other's hands easier than ever before. Harry shook his with great vigor. "How could I forget?"

He was referencing the bet they had made late at night, both drunk with tiredness, a few days prior: whoever's team lost the game had to do the other's homework from a class of their choosing for a week. If Harry won, he'd make Malfoy complete his Runes work (his grade could really use the boost), and if Malfoy won, Harry would have to do his Defence work-- which wasn't too bad, but it's not like Harry was going to end up doing it anyway, because Malfoy was going _down._

As the two stepped away from each other, Madam Hooch motioned for the players to mount their brooms. On the third blow of her whistle, she tossed the quaffle in the air, each player shooting up into the sky. The charms caused the ball— as well as the bludgers and snitch that were at Madam Hooch’s feet— to shoot up into the air above the pitch. As they flew up, players of both teams followed closely behind. As Harry ascended, the cheers of the crowd below faded and he only had one thing on his mind: finding the snitch.

The wind in his hair and the smell of fresh air always brought out the best in Harry. Smiles came easier, his focus was sharper-- and he didn't have to worry about schoolwork or friend drama or other dumb things that didn't really matter either way. He had a simple goal with only minimal distractions; it was essentially how he wished his life could be at this point.

His eyes glazed over green-and-silver and red-and-gold cladded flyers, paying close attention to the bludgers that were being whacked through the air. Demelza Robins nearly took one to the shoulder, but steered herself out of the way at the last second. Harry knew that the snitch wouldn't be spotted for a little while (it liked to do a lap around the castle before making its first appearance in the stadium), so he focused his attention on avoiding bludgers and keeping track of Malfoy's position. He seemed to stay on the Slytherin's half of the pitch, occupying the space just above the goals. Harry watched him for a moment, the way his robes whipped behind him, like a flag dancing prideful in the breeze. There didn't seem to be any strategy to his position at the moment, so Harry turned his attention back to the other players.

After ten minutes or so, Harry began actively looking for the snitch. It was bound to be back to the pitch by now, and so far, the score was pretty even: Slytherin was in the lead with twenty points, and Gryffindor was close behind with ten. Harry rarely paid attention to the score, because as long as no one had gotten up into the triple digits, it was really either team's game. So long as Malfoy didn't find the snitch before him, Gryffindor still had a chance to win.

Harry's eyes scanned over faces and robes and brooms, searching for that familiar glint. It always felt a little tedious, at the beginning, but that's what Harry loved about Quidditch: the way it riled him up, the thrill of the chase. He'd always been good at sports, but not enough to make the team-- nor was he liked enough to be chosen for one. Always last to be picked, but always ended up on the winning team. It made him resent playing sports for a long time. But then, he was thrown into Quidditch, and he fell in love with it. Because, for once, he felt like he truly belonged on a team, like he could lead it freely and without reserve, without fear. Maybe that's why he yearned to be chief in command once more.

Within his peripheral, Harry saw a sudden blur of movement: a flash of green and silver and white blond to his left. Harry turned as fast as he could and leaned forward on his broom, gaining on Malfoy. They zigged and zagged through other players, dodging bludgers and broomsticks until Malfoy halted in his tracks. Harry's robes whipped around him as he sidled up to the other seeker, who seemed to have lost track of the snitch in the chase. Both sets of eyes darted from side to side, eagerly seeking out the golden gleam of the tiny orb.

When no such fruits were borne from their labour, the boys turned around to head back to their original spots. But just as Harry started in that direction, he caught sight of the shimmer of the golden snitch to his left. It was hovering over a Slytherin chaser's shoulder; she hadn't noticed it, as she was too busy keeping track of the quaffle. "And Slytherin chaser Dedra Winickus fumbles the quaffle just before--" Orla Quirke, Ravenclaw fourth year and current Hogwarts Quidditch commentator, interrupted herself, eyes shifting from Dedra Winickus to Harry. "Hold on, Gryffindor seeker Harry Potter seems to have spotted the snitch once more." He'd immediately turned in the opposite direction of the snitch, pretending to speed after it. Malfoy caught on as soon as he noticed and began to follow Harry. After a good couple of seconds, Harry turned so sharply to his left that he nearly fell off his broom, and booked it towards the snitch, which still remained near the Slytherin chaser. "Oh wow! He pulled a last second fake out! I believe he has done a similar move in the early stages of his Quidditch career here at Hogwarts, and he's done it successfully once again!"

Harry continued towards the snitch, ignoring the commentary and all of his surroundings. If he could just keep his eyes on it, not lose sight of it, he'd win it all for sure. He weaved in and out of the other players, refusing to look away from the snitch even for a moment. He was sure Malfoy was on his tail, but he kept going, circling the pitch and eventually making his way towards Ron, who was over at the keeper's post at the Gryffindor goals. Jimmy Peakes, who had just whacked a bludger away from Harry, shouted something unintelligible, and Harry mistakenly, for a _split second,_ looked away from the snitch. When he looked back in front of him, a feeling of dread filled his stomach. The snitch was nowhere to be seen.

He halted on his broom. His eyes danced around the arena, desperately searching for the snitch until he finally caught sight of the other seeker. Malfoy had lost sight of it too, and was now cruising along the perimeter of the pitch. It was fine, everything was fine. As long as Malfoy didn't have the snitch, the odds were still in Harry's favour. He was the better seeker, after all, and he knew that he could beat Malfoy. So long as he got to the snitch before him, everything would work out and Malfoy would be stuck doing his Runes work for the next week; he just needed to stay focused. 

So he did. Harry followed Malfoy's suit and continued his hunt for the golden snitch. The game went on, the points totalling out 70:60 to Gryffindor by the time either seeker saw the snitch again. This time, it was Malfoy who spotted it first. He'd been only about five meters away from Harry when he'd suddenly dashed to his right, dodging a bludger before zig zagging his way towards the Slytherin goals. Harry noticed the snitch just after reaching Malfoy: it was zipping back and forth from the left goal post to the right. Harry steered his broom right next to Malfoy, literally neck-and-neck. The snitch suddenly took off, causing Harry and Malfoy to speed after it, past the other players, above the crowd, and then down closer to the ground. Harry was soaring through the air, trying to gain some vantage over Malfoy, when the snitch darted upward. The boys followed, speeding up, up, up into the sky. As they did, Harry looked over to Malfoy and saw something he never expected.

His eyes were shining with pure, unadulterated _giddiness_ . He was panting and had beads of sweat dripping down his face, hair mussed and looking wild. It made Harry's heart skip a beat. Malfoy's arm was stretched out in front of him, mirroring Harry, and he looked so full of light. Like he was reaching towards the shiniest star, the brightest of jewels. And, God, Harry just _couldn't_. 

Because even though he wanted this win, more than anything, he didn’t need it. He’d had other wins in his life, some wrapped up in shiny, red ribbon, others more complex and not as clean-cut. From what he’d seen, Malfoy didn’t have many wins. And the way he was looking at the snitch, like it was a lifeline in a hopeless fugue… Harry wondered if it was really just a snitch to Draco.

So, Harry applied microscopic pressure to his breaks, making the distance between his and Malfoy's fingertips just slightly greater. But that miniscule difference in reach made all the difference, because just before Harry was able to, Malfoy scooped up the snitch, enclosing its wings in his grasp. The crowd went wild as Harry slowed down and Malfoy soared, higher than Harry's ever seen him. He whooped and hollered, flying over to his teammates and presenting them with the captured snitch. It was the first match of the season, and Harry didn't have the heart to crush Malfoy's beaming smile, so he flew over to his team to console them for the loss. 

"Mate... What happened?" Ron asked him when they were back on the ground. 

Harry shrugged, feigning defeat. "I dunno. Guess it was just out of reach."

The rest of the Gryffindor team patted him on the back, telling him to shake it off. "We'll get 'em next time, won't we, Harry?" 

He smiled, turning back to Malfoy, who was talking animatedly to his teammates, still holding the snitch. His voice came out softer than he intended, filled with emotion. "Oh, definitely."

Ron’s eyes narrowed at Harry, something akin to concern shining in them.

_____________

Draco had approached Potter after dinner in the common room, while other people were still there. This was unusual for the pair, and Draco knew it. But Potter looked very uncomfortable while studying with the Granger-Weasley couple and Draco took pity on that.

"Potter." Standard greeting. Standard setting. The conversation didn't earn the strange looks from the two love birds that it received.

"Oh. Malfoy," Potter's eyes widened with his greeting. It was only a little bit pathetic. "Hey."

He was trying to make this difficult on purpose, wasn't he? "Grab your books. I need your help with something."

Potter nodded dumbly, but didn't move. Something seemed different about him. Perhaps it was due to Draco's rather uncharacteristic desire to speak with him at what some may consider a "decent hour." When he finally did get up to move, he more or less brushed off Weasley's badgering and followed Draco out of the common room

Draco led the pair to the library. Potter walked at his side, quiet, but presence so loud. He was buzzing with magic, practically humming. The hair on Draco's arms stood up like it was static instead of the magical energy of someone with too much on their mind. Draco didn't want to pry too much; that was always harder to do in broad daylight. So he stayed mum and just basked in the glow of Potter. It was almost too much, the amount of magic the man possessed. Draco sometimes forgot how strong he was, physically and magically-- he seemed so different compared to when he was in the midst of saving the world. He seemed so far away back then, so out of reach.

"So..." Potter interrupted Draco's thoughts about, well, Potter. "What exactly do you need help with?"

Draco smirked a little. "Nothing, really. I just figured I'd save you from that pitiful attempt at socialisation."

Potter nudged him with his elbow, but didn't say anything. A silent sort of understanding passed between the two as they continued to make their way through the stone walkways of the castle. Draco wasn't blind, he could see the obvious discourse between the trio lately. He knew he was not the only one who's noticed, either. Luna would not stop bringing it up, how Draco should intervene and try to help Potter with his "emotional baggage." Draco thought he was doing plenty of helping, thankyouverymuch. He was going to be saving Potter's _house_ for Crowley's sake; he wasn’t the man's keeper. It was not his job to intrude on personal affairs. Now, if Potter invited him to do so, that'd be a different story. But regardless, Draco knew he shouldn't take on more than he'd already agreed to. He had his own demons to battle. Taking on Harry's problems as well as his own would do more harm than good, and he had grown enough as a person to recognise that.

But that didn't stop him from asking questions when they finally sat down at a more secluded spot in the library. Not without a nasty look from Madam Pince, of course. "Trouble in paradise?"

Potter looked up at him while he laid out his study materials. "You could say that."

"Well," Draco tapped his Defence notes with his quill, "You can tell me about it while working on my Defence assignment for tomorrow."

Potter sighed, but Draco could’ve sworn he saw the hint of a smile on his face. Draco passed him his worksheet. He hesitated. For some reason, he felt like this conversation could make things confusing and, well, awkward. But he pushed forward, trying to act casual. Circe, when did his problems become so trivial? “Alright, spill. And give me your Runes work.”

The other boy let out a small noise of confusion. “Why do you want my…”

He trailed off as Draco pointedly looked at his stack of books. He shrugged. “It was a close game.” Though in all honesty, he just felt a little bad for making Harry do extra work— even if it was a bet. 

Potter gave him the side-eye, but passed him his work nonetheless. The two worked in silence, Draco figuring Potter would open up when he wanted to. The quiet was nice, and felt just like studying in the common room in the wee hours of morning, where just the two of them would sit in front of the hearth and talk quietly amongst themselves.

“I don’t really know where to start.”

That was all Harry said, mumbled as he kept his eyes cast down on his paper and continued working. If Draco hadn’t been looking at him over his books, he wouldn’t have even noticed. 

“Maybe at the beginning?”

Harry sighed. “Well, things have been… kind of off with Hermione and Ron, lately.” Draco nodded, but kept translating runes as Potter spoke. “We’d always been close, even after they first started dating. It had always been the three of us. But recently, things have been kind of weird between us”

When he paused, Draco looked up, his quill poised above the paper. “Weird how?” He prompted.

Potter groaned and leaned back in his seat. “Strained? Awkward? I don’t know. It just…” He bit his lip and crossed his arms, pouting a little. Although they’ve talked about some rather personal things before, they’d all been things relative to the past; things that had happened before they’d formed this truce, before they spent their nights together in the common room. Talking about current matters in their lives... This was new territory. Draco could see the hesitance in Harry’s eyes, but almost as soon as he saw it, it disappeared and was replaced with a pitiful gloom. “It feels like my best friends have chosen each other over me.”

Draco nodded. He’d been there before, that was for sure. But he’d also chosen himself over his friends before; he knew that most of the time, it wasn’t as simple as that. “Things are complicated for new couples,” he told Harry, setting down his quill. “Especially for those like Granger who have never truly dated before. I’m sure that Weasley is also having a completely different experience with Granger than he did with Lavender Brown.”

Harry snickered at that and sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “You can say that again.”

Draco chuckled and continued on. “Things are probably not so cheery and perfect with the new couple as they seem. I’d just give them the time and space they need to figure out how this new dynamic is going to work.” He paused, picking up his quill to resume Harry’s runes work. “But if it’s really bothering you, Harry, I suggest you—” (Potter looks at him with wide eyes. It was rare that Draco called him by his first name. The blond pretended he didn’t notice the heat rising in his cheeks as he continued.) “—bring it up to them. Probably the Weasel first; He seems like he’d be more comfortable talking with you about his love life.”  
  


“Surprisingly, not.” Harry frowned and turned back to Draco’s defence work. “Every time he talks about Hermione to me, it’s like he’s talking about being in love with my sister, you know? It’s just a little strange, is all. I don’t think I’ve gotten used to them dating yet, even though we lived together over the majority of the summer.” 

The air between them was still for a moment as the boys did their work. There was something so peaceful about working together in the light of day. It was a different kind of peace than the one they found in the early hours of dawn in front of the common room fireplace.

Draco completed six problems in the time it took Harry to speak up again.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, continuing to do his work. “For the advice, I mean.”

Draco nodded, not looking up from his work. “Any time.”

They both knew that was subject to change, but neither said it outloud. Instead, they enjoyed the quiet and warmth of the library as they did each other’s homework. A bet is a bet, after all.

(Even if Draco did technically win it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for sticking with me thus far, even with my absolutely dreadful posting schedule. New chapter will be out in one to two weeks-- again, thank you for your patience hehe
> 
> Check out my booklr/fandom blog here: [@sneezied on tumblr!](https://sneezied.tumblr.com/)
> 
> See y'all soon! And in the mean time, stay safe and stay healthy!
> 
> \- Will


	5. Five

  
Harry woke up to snow on the third Saturday morning of December. It had been snowing lightly on and off for the first half of the month, but earlier that week, a blizzard finally hit, and the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were blanketed with a thick layer of the stuff. The windows in the busy hallways of the castle were frosted around the edges and there were snowdrifts halfway up the glass on the main floor. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny navigated the packed halls with confidence, used to the yearly chaos of leaving for winter break. Ginny and Harry walked side by side, trunks and bags and Pigwidgeon’s cage towing behind them.   
  
Ginny nudged him with her elbow. The normalcy of the interaction made Harry grin. “So. You excited for Christmas this year?”  
  
Harry let out a sigh. “It’ll be a new experience, that’s for sure.”  
  
“I bet. You and Malfoy are sure to have a nice time; I hear you two have gotten quite chummy lately.”  
  
“Where’d you hear all that?”  
  
She shrugged and smirked slyly. “I have my sources. But you still better be coming over for Christmas day, even with the Ferret. Everyone’s gonna be home: Bill and Fleur, Percy and Audrey, George, Ron— even Charlie’s coming home for the week. Said he’s bringing someone special.”  
  
“Doesn’t he say that every year?”  
  
“Yeah, but supposedly this time he means it. Mum thinks he’s gonna propose to the lucky lady.”  
  
“Oh, I doubt that. Charlie doesn’t seem like the type to propose in front of family, especially when bringing someone home to meet his family for the first time.”  
  
“Well, he better become the type, and quick. Mum’ll have his head if he doesn’t.”  
  
Harry chuckled as the group finally made it through the mess of teenagers and to the Grand Hall, where breakfast and the Winter Farewell Assembly took place. They checked their luggage with Filch and Hagrid, who gave the group his own farewell.  
  
“Fang sends his warm regards, same fer Buckbeak,” his smile softened and large tears pooled in his eyes. He sniffled and rubbed his nose with a dirty handkerchief. “I hope ya all have a lo’ely Christmas. It’s jus… such a shame this’ll be yer last at Hogwarts.”  
  
Hermione patted his arm gingerly and smiled, her own eyes misty. “We’ll always write to you, Hagrid.”  
  
Ginny smiled widely and gave Hagrid a wide hug. “Mum’ll surely send you Christmas cards as well. With bundles of popovers and treacle toffee!”  
  
Hagrid chuckled through the tears that threatened to pour onto his rosy cheeks and hugged her back, crushing Ginny just as tightly as she was trying to crush him. She laughed with him as they broke a part.

“I’ll make sure to stop by next week to visit,” Harry said, going in for his own hug. “Even if I have to drag Malfoy along with me,” he added on quietly, so that only Hagrid could hear.

Harry’s bi-weekly meetings with the groundskeeper led to a lot of talk of the blond and the strange friendship he and Harry formed, so Hagrid was aware of the little arrangement they had planned. The large man smiled into the hug and gave a hearty laugh. “Aye, I’ll make sure’ta make extra Rock Cakes then!”

Harry stepped away with a grin. As Ron and Hermione said their goodbyes, Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned only to find a pale face with wide blue eyes smiling wistfully at him.

“Hullo, Harry,” Luna bowed her head slightly in greeting. Her short, curly hair bounced with the action. She’d cut it into a pixie cut at the beginning of summer, and it was now down to her chin. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas to you too, Luna.” He bowed in a similar fashion. “Have any plans for holiday break?”

“Just to spend time with father. I’ll also be going to visit Mr. Ollivander; chatting with him always clears away some of his wrackspurts. I think I remind him of his daughter.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “Mr. Ollivander has a daughter?”

Luna nodded. “He did. She’s dead now, though. Prepared a potion with cowbane plant incorrectly, died the next morning. She was our age, too.”

“That’s horrible.”

  
“Yes, it happened years ago. He doesn’t talk much of her—”

Suddenly, Ginny appeared at Harry’s side. “Hey, Luna. You look lovely today.”

  
Luna, who was wearing an oversized sweater and a floor length skirt with bulky brown combat boots, smiled bashfully at Ginny. “Thank you. Your eyes are very bright today. Excited for Christmas?”

Harry had whiplash from the change in topic. The girls continued to chat as their small group followed the rest of the crowd into the Great Hall, but Harry tuned them out a little. He didn’t realise what (or rather who) he was looking for until he saw it: blonde, messy hair and a bored expression. Draco Malfoy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. It made Harry’s heart race to think that “anywhere” in this case probably was his own home. 

Harry and the rest of the group sat down at the Gryffindor table, except for Luna, who drifted back to her spot at the Ravenclaw table. Draco, surprisingly enough, sat at his own house’s table, making idle small talk to a tired looking Blaise Zabini and a grinning Pansy Parkinson. He was dressed nicely, as always, with a maroon sweater over a white button up and beige chinos. He looked good, except for the eyebags under his eyes. Harry was growing evermore anxious about Draco’s lack of sleep, going so far as to consider alerting Madame Pomfrey about it. He wouldn’t, though. He could never betray Draco’s trust like that, especially since their relationship was so fragile to begin with.

The table was stacked with a wide spread of eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, and fruit. Pitchers were near overflowing with pumpkin juice and mulled wine (non-alcoholic, of course), and mugs with piping hot tea and coffee were being sipped from gingerly on that cold morning. The house elves truly had outdone themselves with the special breakfast, and Harry’s stomach growled just looking at it.

After the meal, when the entire student body was in a near comatose state, Minerva McGonagall, headmistress of Hogwarts, stood. The room went silent with her commanding presence, and every person in the room was captivated by her words.

“Students and staff,” she began, “I thank you for another wonderful fall term at Hogwarts. I know how strange and difficult this year must have been for you, and I would personally like to congratulate you for all of the hardwork and effort you’ve put in. 

“If you look around yourselves now, you will notice some empty seats at your tables. Many of our previous students chose not to return to Hogwarts this year, and frankly we cannot blame them. After the trials and tribulations we’ve all been through, those who wished for a break deserved to have that opportunity, and we hope to see them back at Hogwarts next year.”

The professor took a long pause. Harry felt the energy in the room shift, and suddenly his mulled wine tasted a little sour. “But some of the other empty seats will never be filled,” McGonagall continued, “and I think that many of you children have come to terms with that on your own. Regardless, this holiday season will be hard on everyone. Please, I beg of you, hold your loved ones close this holiday. Be patient. Be kind. And remember: There is always a place for you here at Hogwarts.

“We will be owling you more information on resources in this time of need. You should receive the pamphlet by the time you arrive home, or by the time you return to your common room, if you are staying here for the holidays. Please do not hesitate to contact any of the staff if you are in need of anything. It is our number one priority to be here for our students, and we truly and deeply care about each and every one of you. We all hope you have a holiday break filled with love and whatever joy you manage to create with those you love. Thank you.”

Suddenly, the dishes vanished from the dining tables and students were dismissed. Harry saw Hermione wipe at the corners of her eyes as they made their way to the carriages. He couldn’t blame her.

________

It was sleeting in London. Harry loved the cold, but sleet was the worst. Hail, snow, and rain all in one? No thank you. He and Draco were lucky enough to be able to apparate to Grimmauld place, so they thankfully didn’t get too covered in the slush. Stomping off their boots, the two boys lugged their trunks into the foyer. They shrugged off their travelling cloaks with shivering hands, and as Malfoy took off his boots, Harry called for Kreacher to get a fire going in the lounge.

“So this is the house…” Draco mumbled. Standing in the doorway of Harry’s house. In his stocking feet. (Harry’s brain may have been short-circuiting for reasons totally unbeknownst to himself.) “I haven’t been here in years, but it still looks exactly the same.”

A blush blossomed across Harry’s cheeks. “Er, yeah. Haven’t gotten around to changing much.”

The pair stood awkwardly in the entryway, Draco looking around the small hall and Harry refusing to look at Draco. A few moments passed in stiff silence.

Harry cleared his throat and called for Kreacher, hoping he would help soften the atmosphere.

With a crack, he appeared in front of the boys. “Good evening, Masters. Welcome home, and Kreacher does wish you a happy Christmas.”

Harry smiled at the elf. He’d tidied up for the occasion, looking as though he’d recently bathed and even combed over the few hairs he had on his otherwise bald head. “Happy Christmas to you too, Kreacher. Would you mind bringing our trunks upstairs?”

Krecher nodded eagerly. “Yes, certainly. Then would Master Draco like Kreacher to give him the grand tour?”

His eyes still surveying his surroundings, Draco nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Kreacher.”

Kreacher hobbled over to where Harry’s trunk was and gripped its handle with one clawed hand. With a wide smile, the elf apparated to the master bedroom.

Harry rocked on his heels. “Uh, how about some tea, then?”

Draco had walked over to a framed painting on the wall and was viewing it with a strange look in his eye. “That would be lovely.”

Harry nodded and, when he began to walk to the kitchen, didn’t bat an eye when Draco followed him. 

Harry’s favourite room in the house was easily the kitchen. It had a more homey feel to it than the rest of the house did. The walls were lined with tall black cabinets and a wide cobblestone hearth. There was a permanent cauldron fixed on one half of the cooking surface and a grate for holding pots and pans on the other. Harry had never seen a fireplace such as this before, and he’d only cooked on it a handful of times. Kreacher said it was a classic witch’s stove and that it was meant to be used with magic, made the food taste better. Harry wasn’t sure what difference it made. 

As he set the ingredients for tea out on the long wooden table, Draco watched, a curious look in his eye. His face was bathed in the warm light from the candles clustered in the centre of the table, their flames lit indefinitely and wicks never shortening thanks to some simple spellwork. He looked softer here, more boyish than he did at school. But when he noticed Harry looking, something clouded over his expression and his lip curled ever so slightly as he said, “You can’t feel it, can you?”

Harry lifted a brow as he cast an Incendio at the logs in the fireplace. “No,” he asked as he filled the kettle and hung it over the fire. “What exactly am I supposed to be feeling?”

Draco sat down at the table stiffly, watching Harry as he busied himself with preparing the leaves. “I can feel the house, pulling at me. It is attracted to our magical auras.” He looked at Harry with narrowed eyes, his pale face scrunched up. He looked a little like Hermione in that moment. “I’m surprised you cannot feel it.”

Harry shrugged, setting aside the prepared tea infuser. He turned his back to Draco and leaned against the table, staring at the kettle. If he focused, he could feel a sort of tickling at his back, as though someone was grazing their fingers over his spine. “Why does it want our magic?”

Draco’s voice was quiet and contemplative. “Because it is dying, Potter. And magic is life.”

The boys remained silent while they waited for the kettle to boil. The more Harry focused, the stronger that pulling feeling was. It made him uncomfortable, reminded him of the Dementors and the horrible feeling of being pulled out of your body. But this kind of pulling wasn’t malice, nor was it painful— it was desperate and filled Harry with a quiet melancholy. Perhaps that’s why Draco seemed to be acting so strange. If he could feel the effects of the wards more intensely than Harry, he had to have been feeling the grief even worse.

By the time the tea was prepared, Kreacher had returned and was acting like a giddy child, ready to give Draco a tour of the house. It seemed as though it took all his willpower not to tug on the young man’s sleeve as he led him up the stairs to the main floor.

“Kreacher knows Master Draco has been in the house before, and nothing much has changed since he was last here, but Kreacher must show you the drawing room at the very least—” 

He showed him more than the drawing room, of course.

They toured the first floor formal living room, Kreacher parading around and showing Draco some of the Black family heirlooms that still remained. It was quite the sight, seeing Kreacher practically glowing with pride. After the living room, they stopped by the doorway and discussed the mounted elf heads, the troll foot umbrella rack, and (quietly, so she wouldn’t stir) the portrait of Draco’s aunt. Harry cringed and had politely told Kreacher that they should let her sleep when he began to draw the curtains back to show Draco the painting. Kreacher’s ears turned down and he blushed a little— blushed! The elf was a completely different person around Malfoy, Harry swore— and continued up the stairs to the second floor.

They spent most of the tour in the library. Kreacher rambled on about the Black’s value of knowledge and how Great Uncle Black had been quite the bookworm. The shelves that lined the large room went up all the way to the ceiling, and there was even a pair of sliding ladders attached to the shelves, their silver hardware shining proudly amidst the dark mahogany shelves. Draco’s slender hands grazed spine after spine, almost tenderly. “I bet Granger had a field day in here…”

Harry nodded. “She volunteered to clean and reorganise the room. We all helped her intermittently, of course, but the majority of the work was done by herself.”

Draco’s hand falls from the shelf. “Impressive.”

“‘Mione has sort of claimed this room as her own, now,” Harry said with a small smile. “She would sneak off to read when Ron and I got into a match of chess or started talking about Quidditch.”

“You know, the more I hear about Granger,” Draco turns to face Harry, a small smirk gracing his features, “The more I realise how alike we are.”

A small snicker is heard from the corner where the writing desk sat. Leaning against the side of it was a smug looking Kreacher. Draco shot him a look, but said nothing. The elf immediately stood to attention and bowed, mumbling quiet apologies.

Harry chuckled. “Let’s keep the tour going, Kreacher.”

The elf nodded eagerly and practically skipped out the door.

The dynamic seemed to shift between Malfoy and Harry as they made their way through the old house. It went from a soft, shared melancholy to something a bit warmer. The smiles came easier, and each room brought with it Draco’s quiet pondering and curious touches. Harry watched him with a soft smile on his face, until they got to the fourth floor.

Kreacher’s energy was as palpable as ever but he sneered when they approached the first door on the right. “Kreacher will not waste the Masters’ time with that room, as it is the… blood traitor’s old dwelling.”

  
Harry’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “Kreacher, what did we say—” 

The elf not-so-subtly rolled his eyes. “Yes, Kreacher is to refer to him by his name, but Kreacher still thinks—”

“Kreacher. Enough.”

Both the elf and Harry turned to Draco, eyes wide in surprise. He’d commanded it so quietly, but the authority in his voice had not wavered. He looked at Kreacher unnerved, eyes half-lidded. The way he held his resolve filled the air with tension. Kreacher shied away from his gaze.

“Yes, Master Draco.”

The silence after those words was deafening. Harry didn’t move a muscle, but he could feel the old anger burning beneath his skin. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Well, there’s nothing much up here anyhow,” he made his way towards the stairs as he spoke, refusing to wait for Draco and Kreacher to begin their descent. “I suppose I’ll let you unpack and get settled. Kreacher put your luggage in the last bedroom on the third floor; if you don’t like the room, feel free to move to any of the others on that floor. Dinner will be ready at six.”

Harry continued walking to the kitchen, leaving Draco on the third floor. He felt rude for leaving Draco to his own devices, and Circe knows what Molly Weasley would say about Harry’s hosting. But he needed a moment to himself. Being in that house, with all the memories and all the wounds that still haven’t healed… it was always a shock for the first day or so. And Harry couldn’t tell if it was better or worse with Draco Malfoy there with him.

So he dragged himself to the master bedroom and unpacked his trunk, lost in thought. The grey wallpaper was not the most comforting sight, and his allergies were acting up from the slight dust that had gathered on the furniture since Kreacher’s last cleaning. 

Kreacher. To be honest, Harry didn’t blame Kreacher entirely for his rude behavior. Living in a house with sixteen generations of pureblood wizard bigotry must have taken a toll on one’s mind, and Harry himself knew just how difficult it was to deal with Sirius’ rebellious nature. But the elf could have some goddamn respect for him, especially now that he was dead.

The bitter feelings ebbed and flowed over the next half hour, and by the time he’d unpacked, Harry felt a little better about it all. He emerged from his bedroom to find Malfoy walking down the stairs. 

“Good afternoon, Potter,” he said in his blue-stocking feet glory.

Harry nodded, walking behind him down the narrow staircase. “Good afternoon. Have you gotten settled?”

“Quite. I’ve spent most of the time in the library though. My late Uncle seems to lack in books about ward healing…”

They stepped into the foyer and Harry bounced a little on his feet as he walked. “We could take a trip to Diagon Alley, if that’d be helpful?”

Draco shook his head. “I think I can manage without any more outside assistance, at least for the first few raisings, but we could potentially run into a few problems down the line. It may be beneficial to plan a trip for tomorrow.”

Harry nodded, eyes trained on the wood floor below him. His stocking covered toe traced a crack in one of the floorboards as he said, “We’ll plan on it, then. Anyways, I was about to make dinner. Would you care to help?”

Draco nodded, following Harry down into the kitchen. “I should never trust you to make an edible meal, Potter, if your potion’s skills have any indication of such talents in the kitchen.”

_____________

Draco surprisingly didn’t have to carry Potter out of a burning building that evening, nor did they even have to call for takeout. Turns out, Potter was quite the cook (which confused Draco as to why he had such difficulty making potions, but that was beside the point). The whole process of making the meal— Coq Au Vin, at the chef’s suggestion— went quite smoothly. Draco sat at the counter, arms folded over his chest, making small talk and admiring the queer domesticity of the chopping of vegetables and frying of bacon in Potter’s little kitchen. Harry also looked quite fit as head chef, the definition of “homemaker” in his canvas apron, and the thought made Draco’s neck redden. 

“So. How did you get so good at cooking, Potter?”

Harry tensed as he stirred the simmering vegetables. He spoke with an air of nonchalance, but his knuckles turned white around the hand of the spatula. “I was in the kitchen a lot as a child.”

It was then that Draco realised just how little he knew about Harry’s childhood, or even what awaited him when school let out for summer holiday every year. “Oh? Who taught you how?”

Potter inhaled deeply. “Myself. It was a lot of trial and error.”

Draco’s brow quirked. “How old were you when you started cooking?”  
Harry shrugged. “Six? Maybe seven?”

There was something left unsaid, but Draco didn’t pry. Six years old? A six year old shouldn’t be let anywhere near an open range or knives, or even a practice cauldron for that matter. And to teach themself to cook… that was just outright child endangerment. But come to think of it, Draco had no idea of Harry’s family. He knew Harry’s mother and father had died, but besides that— 

“You can ask you know. It’s okay.”

  
Harry’s mumbling had almost been drowned out by the bubbling and simmering of the chicken and red wine. Draco considered him for a moment before saying, “Who took care of you for all those years? Before you came to Hogwarts?”

  
Harry set down the spatula and leaned against the counter, facing Draco, as he let the meal cook. “On paper? My aunt and uncle. But in truth, I took care of myself.”

He left it at that for the time being, turning to the sink and washing his hands, even though he hadn’t touched anything but the spatula since he washed them last. Draco felt bile rise in his throat. Just the implication of what Harry said… it made him want to hex someone.

“It wasn’t the glamorous upbringing of the Chosen One that most people imagine,” he said, practically spitting the words out. Harry’s eyebrows knitted together.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Harry nodded. “I know. It’s okay, Draco.” He shrugged off the look of resentment, but it left behind this deep rooted exhaustion in Harry’s eyes. “Well, if anything good is to come of it, it’s that I can make a mean dish.”

Draco chuckled. Harry shook his head and laughed along, the weight from the room dissipating with it. 

“Well, I am quite excited to try it. It smells heavenly from over here.”

What Draco didn’t tell Harry was that Coq Au Vin was one of his childhood favourites. He also didn’t tell Harry how he was more than excited to try it.

And thus by the time they sat down at the table, Draco was absolutely famished. The smell had been driving him crazy for nearly half an hour, and he snuck pieces of potato and mushroom when Harry wasn’t looking. But now sitting across from each other once more, Draco raised his glass of mead high in the air, a smile gracing his features. “To healing the wards,” he said.

Harry smiled back, raising his own glass. “To healing the wards.”

Draco drank to more than just that, however.  
  
He drank to Harry, welcoming him into his home and breaking bread with him. To welcoming him into more than just his home. To walking him to class. To helping him with his Defence work. Knowing how he takes his tea. Sitting with him in the glow of the fire in the early hours of dawn. Asking him for advice and sharing the intimate details of his life with his formerly sworn enemy.

He drank to so much more than he could ever thank Harry for outloud.  
  
And in that moment, he promised that he would spend however long it took to repay him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my booklr/fandom tumblr for updates about this fic and author's notes: [@sneezied on tumblr!](https://sneezied.tumblr.com/)


	6. Author's Note (12/13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR: A family emergency has arose, so there will be no new chapters for a while. I'm sorry, gang, I really am :/

Yknow, 2020 just keeps getting worse! I don't know HOW, but it does lmao

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, Slight Trauma Mention (stay safe!)

Over the past few days, my Great Grandmother's health has been declining rapidly. This is unexpected, and we've been told that she has probably about a week left at the most. I was not really that close to her, but at this point, death has sort of become an annual thing for me in my life-- always coming around December/January-- so I was already kind of down to begin with, but now I have to be strong for my family. Especially my mother, who was very close to my great grandmother and is struggling right now. Which means, I have been very stressed these last few days, not only because of all That but also because of exams and online school. It's just been a tough few weeks for me...

END TRIGGER WARNING

So because of all of those stressors, I will be on another slight hiatus from this fic. I feel so incredibly terrible about it, as I was really excited for the next couple of chapters, but it is what it is. I will try to be more active on my Tumblr, positing updates and fandom stuff in general, so if you'd like to see any of that check it out: [@sneezied](https://sneezied.tumblr.com)

Also, I've been very active on Twitter lately so maybe give that a follow too, if you're interested. I mainly tweet about my special interests and hyperfixations (MCYT is slowly evolving from a hf to a special interest and that's like,,, all I tweet about now lol), but also post a little about my personal life and things going on in it. You can find my twitter here: [@willehmyne](https://twitter.com/willehmyne)

I think that's about it for today, gang. I'm going to go down a Monster and power through half of my AP Lit final essay >:)

Stay safe. Love you all

\- Will <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Thank you for all the sweet comments and kudos. We broke 2000 hits sometime in the last two days-- that's absolutely wonderful, and certainly brightened my day. I love you all, and please stay safe this holiday season (Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, and Happy Kwanzaa-- and any other holidays you may celebrate <3).


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